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'f* r

N TRANS I T t □

A S

econ

Life

German Cinema’s
First Decades

EDITED BY

if.

THOMAS

ELSAESSER

A Second Life:
German Cinema
First Decades

FILM CULTURE IN TRANSITION

Thomas Elsaesser: General Editor

Double Trouble

Chiem van Houweninge on Writing and Filming

Thomas Elsaesser ; Robert Kievit and Jan Simons teds.)

Writing for the Medium

Thomas Elsaesser, Jan Simons and Lucette Bronk (eds.)

Between Stage and Screen
Ingmar Bergman Directs

Egil Tdrnquist

The Film Spectator: From Sign to Mind

Warren Buckland (ed.)

Film and the First World War

Karel Dibbets, Bert Hogenkamp (eds.)

Fassbinder’s Germany

Thomas Elsaesser

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A Second Life:
German Cinema’s
First Decades

edited by

Thomas Elsaesser

with

Michael Wedel

Amsterdam IJ n

versity Press

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Cover (front): Still from die schwarzf. kugf.i. (Franz Hofer, 1913).

Cover (back): Asia Nielsen in engelein (1913) Both courtesy of the Nederlands Filmirtuseum, Amsterdam.

Cover design: Kok Korpershoek (KO), Amsterdam
Typesetting: beeldvorm, Leiden

ISBN 90 5356 172 2 (paperback)

ISBN 90 5356 183 8 (hardbound)

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may
be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means
(electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both
the copyright owner and the auhor of this book.

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CONTENTS

Preface and Acknowledgements
General Introduction

Early German Cinema: A Second Life?

Thomas Elsaesser

Section I: Audiences and the Cinema Industry

The Kaiser’s Cinema: An Archeology of Attitudes and Audiences
Martin Loiperdinger

Oskar Messter, Film Pioneer: Early Cinema between Science, Spectacle, and

Commerce

Martin Koerber

The French Connection: Franco-German Film Relations before World War I
Frank Kessler and Sabine Lenk

The Danish Influence: David Oliver and Nordisk in Germany
Evelyn Hampicke

Paul Davidson, the Frankfurt Film Scene and afgrunden in Germany
Peter Lahn

Munich’s First Fiction Feature: die wahrheit
Jan-Christopher Horak

Moving Images of America in Early German Cinema
Deniz Gdktiirk

Section II: Popular Stars and Genres

Comedy

Early German Film Comedy, 1895-1917
Thomas Brandlmeier

The Spectator as Accomplice in Ernst Lubitsch’s sen uhpa last pink us
Karsten Witte

Melodrama and Social Drama

Asta Nielsen and Female Narration: The Early Films

Heide Schliipmann

Melodrama and Narrative Space: Franz Hofer’s heidenroslein
Michael Wedel

Crime Drama and Detective Film

Cinema from the Writing Desk: Detective Films in Imperial Germany
Tilo Knops

Ernst Reicher alias Stuart Webbs: King of the German Film Detectives
Sebastian Hesse

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277

285

337

346

349

The Early Fantasy Film
The Faces of Stellan Rye
Casper Tyhjerg

homunculus: A Project for a Modem Cinema
Leonardo Quaresima

Non-Fiction: War Films , Industrial Films, Propaganda and Advertising
Julius Pinschewer: A Trade-mark Cinema
Jeanpaul Goer gen

Newsreel Images of the Military and War, 1914-1918
Wolfgang Muhl-Benninghaus

Learning from the Enemy: German Film Propaganda in World War J
Rainer Rather

The Reason and Magic of Steel:

Industrial and Urban Discourses in die poldihutte
Kimberly O’ Quinn

Section III: Film Style and Intertexts: Authors, Films,
and Authors’ Films

Max Mack: The Invisible Author
Michael Wedel

From Peripetia to Plot Point: Heinrich Lautensack and zweimal gelebt
Jurgen Kasten

Giuseppe Becce and Richard wagner: Paradoxes of the First German Film
Score

Ennio Simeon

Early German Film: The Stylistics in Comparative Context
Barry Salt

Self-Referentiality in Early German Cinema
Sabine Hake

Of Artists and Tourists: ‘Locating’ Holland in Two Early German Films
Ivo Blom

Stylistic Expressivity in die landstrasse
Kristin Thompson

Two ‘Stylists’ of the Teens: Franz Hofer and Yevgenii Bauer
Yuri Tsivian

The Voyeur at Wilhelm’s Court: Franz Hofer
Elena Dagrada

Notes

Bibliography

Publication Acknowledgements
List of Contributors

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Preface and Acknowledgements

What is the German Cinema? One immediately thinks of certain labels and names that
mingle notoriety with fame: Expressionism and the cabinet of dr. caligari, Ufa and-
metropolis, Marlene Dietrich and Leni Riefenstahl, film emigration and film noir , Joseph
Goebbels and jud suss, the marriage of maria braun and the New German Cinema.
Taken together, such names stand for very contradictory values and entities: caligari may
stand for ‘film and the visual arts’; Ufa for nationalist hubris and Alfred Hugenberg or for
the failure of Europe to challenge Hollywood in the twenties, while Fassbinder, Herzog and
Wenders (like Pabst, Mumau and Lang before them) stand for the German film artist and
film auteur par excellence.

And the cinema before World War I? Mostly, it seems to exist only as
preparation, pre-text and precursor. Emperor Wilhelm II’s passion for the cinematograph is
seen as symptomatic for a cinema of Fiihrer figures, where royalty inspecting troops
becomes the precursor of all the Prussian-military propaganda films, rather than, for
instance, the Kaiser turning out to have been the first German film star and a figure from
operetta. 1 the student of Prague (1913), one of the few films well-known from the teens,
becomes the premonition of all the Doppelgdnger and malevolent alter-egos, rather than an
experiment in cinematic space and film technology using standard Gothic and fairy tale
motifs, 2 and Asia Nielsen announces the coming of film as art in Germany, rather than
facilitating the introduction of a crucially different exhibition practice. 3

In other words, early German cinema is rarely considered sui generis, making its
own contribution to the processes of modernity and modernisation at the turn of the century
in one of Europe’s most dynamic societies. Instead, we think we already know what this
cinema is about, what its films ’mean’: not unlike the other periods and figures of German
cinema alluded to above, this ‘pre-history’ and ‘archeology,’ 4 too, have become a matter of
cultural semiotics, a bricolage of meaning-making elements, yielding not so much a history
of German film as testifying to a persistence of German film fantasies.

What then should be the function of a book on this period? To translate some of
Wilhelmine cinema’s totems and icons into an ordered procession of facts and figures,
causes and consequences, while rescuing masterpieces and resurrecting reputations? Yes
and no are the answers the following essays will be giving. Of course, such a foray into
uncharted territory hopes by definition to break new ground, stimulate new interest and
whet new appetites: the films to be discovered among the proverbial treasures of the
archives have not been ‘seen,’ except by a handful of professionals and aficionados,
sometimes for close to a century. If the present book helps to make them better known, and
to a wider public, then one of the aims is already met. The other objective might, perhaps
less modestly, be described as the attempt to give firmer contours to the discursive spaces

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that may one day relocate the three or four known ‘facts’ about the German cinema before
1918.

By concentrating on the years from 1895 to 1917, the essays give themselves a
definite time frame, using as their - perhaps a shade too convenient - closure the moment
when Ufa was founded. For most film historians, this was the point at which the German
cinema became worth talking about. No more. The landmark for recent revisions of early
German cinema was the retrospective held in 1 990 during the ‘Giomate del cinema muto’ in
Pordenone, Italy, whose title Before Caligari, in a double irony, both endorsed and
contested the received wisdom and the implied teleology. 5

Intended to mark the cinema’s centenary, A Second Life: German Cinema's First
Decades stands in the tradition of Pordenone ’s pioneering work, not least because virtually
all contributors are regular guests there. 6 Yet to the extent that they are also practitioners of
the new scholarship in early cinema, their presence here refers back to another collection, of
which this volume is in some sense the companion, The idea for a book on the teens arose in
1 989, when for reasons of size I needed to reduce the final section of Early Cinema: Space,
Frame, Narrative to only two essays representing the ‘European’ cinema. 7 Because of
extensive viewing of early German material, in preparation for the 1990 Pordenone event, 1
also became aware of the holdings of the Nederlands Filmmuseum.

In Amsterdam I was fortunate to find a number of equally keen and considerably
more expert collaborators, one of whom has put together a preliminary inventory of extant
prints in archives of German films up to 1917, a labour of love that has greatly helped the
preparatory work on this volume. s My thanks therefore go in the first instance to Michael
Wedel who has supported this project as author and assistant from start to finish, giving
generously of his time for some tasks made thankless because their traces have all but
vanished in the finished product. Many of those whom we approached did respond, and it is
gratifying to be able to thank them here for their willingness and enthusiasm.

For previously published material I thank the copyright holders for permission
to reprint and translate, notably the editors of KINtop (Martin Loiperdinger, Frank Kessler
and Sabine Lenk), Hans-Michael Bock of CineGraph, Christa Jordan of edition text +
kritik , Claudia Dillmann of the Deutsches Filmmuseum Frankfurt , as well as the editor of
Cinema Journal. Special thanks must go to the translators Cathy Brickwood, Alison Fisher,
Ivo Blom and Karen Pehla, who all had to work under considerable time pressure. Financial
assistance for the project has come from the special fund of the College van Bestuur,
University of Amsterdam and the Department of Film and Television, as part of its ‘100 Year
Cinema’ celebrations.

Insofar as an editor can lay claim to something which consists essentially of the
work of others, this book is dedicated to the memory of my grandmother. Else Sommer
(1879-1964), Wilhelmine citizen and film fan from first to last.

Thomas Elsaesser

8 Early German Cinema Thomas Elsaesser

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Early German Cinema: A Second Life?

Thomas Elsaesser

‘Zweimal gelebt’

German cinema is best remembered for its so-called ‘Golden Age*- the Expressionist films
of the twenties — and for its long line of outstanding individual directors. But the double
spotlight on art cinema and auteurs, reflecting this national cinema’s struggle for cultural
respectability and a penchant for psychological introspection, has only deepened the shad-
ows surrounding another side: the history of its popular cinema. An obvious case in point
are the first two decades, where the standard histories have little to report as being worthy of
detailed study. Because of Germany ’s catastrophic social and political history for almost
half a century, it was tempting to look to the cinema to uncover hidden truths of the nation
and its soul. Especially after 1945, the explanatory deficit about the origins and rise of
national socialism was so great and the memory of the regime’s blatant use of the cinema as
a propaganda instrument so keen that an account of the German cinema of whatever period
found itself offering its own version of hindsight history. 1

Perhaps a blessing in disguise, the period least suited for such a retrospective
teleology was the cinema prior to World War I. Against the background of either document-
ing the roots of nationalism, or rescuing from the debacle an international, self-confident
avantgarde tradition, the early film business seemed haphazard, inconsequential. The films
themselves, compared with the contemporary output from other countries, notably France
and Denmark, looked ponderous and stylistically ‘retarded.’ 2 The more obvious parallels
with early cinema elsewhere - its wide appeal to spectators from all walks of life, its canny
opportunism and unashamed sensationalism, and above all, its many connections with the
other mass media of the time were often passed over in silence or seen merely as negative
blemishes. Paradoxically, however, those very first decades of innovation and experimenta-
tion, of consolidation, rapid change and major crises can tell us more about this cinema as a
‘national’ cinema than any number of symptomatic masterpieces.

From this perspective alone one might speak of ‘A Second Life’ for early Ger-
man cinema, in the face of critical hostility and a quite specific historical agenda, which had
little use or sympathy for a cinema of stars and genres, preferring one of artistic ambitions
and original talent. But the link of German genre films to those made in other countries on
the one hand, and to Wilhelmine Germany’s print and image culture on the other hand, must
be one of the foremost tasks for any film historical re-vision. As to the stars, when one
comes across their names in film credits or trade journal adverts, their lives are now so little-
known that it requires major biographical searches even to establish basic dates. Their faces
in star photographs or collectors’ postcards, by contrast, immediately evoke a period at once

9 Early German Cinema

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totally alien and yet recognizably ‘German," and they also carry with them the unmistakea-
ble glamour of the movies.

A second life, too, is therefore claimed for the early audiences and their tastes:
little seems to have survived either in the nation’s memory or in its archives from the initial
phase of reception history, when from all accounts German films and German film stars
were popular and much appreciated. In the meantime, the amount of source material has
grown, as historians have turned to the trade press and daily newspapers, which has cast
doubt on the often repeated assertion that Germany had no film culture to speak of before
World War I. 3 In this sense, A Second Life is as much a reminder of this cinema’s first life as
an attempt to give its films new currency and attention. Although we are still far from under-
standing what kind of life the cinema used to lead among its audiences when it was domi-
nated by travelling showmen or made its entry into the urban centres of the fast-growing
German Reich, it is clear that from 1896 onwards a lively and diverse awareness of cinema
developed in Germany just as it did in other European countries.

Yet there is a third meaning the title wants to bring into play, now emblematical-
ly focused on a film from 1912, called zweimal gelebt, which translates as ‘A Second
Life.’ Concerning a woman whom a forbidden love almost literally brings back from the
dead in order for her to live a brief though, one assumes, happy second life (before her
memory returns and tragedy ensues), the fdm is remarkable not least for the very divergent
judgements it has given rise to in several of the articles that follow. Title and subject are
emblematic, I want to suggest, also because even the early German cinema appears not to
escape the doubling and mirroring effects, the mises-en-abyme, repetitions and returns we
now associate with ‘expressionist’ cinema. But does this entitle one to invoke a genealogy?
So many films from the early period - and notably those of Max Mack and Franz Hofer -

HF.1MGEKEHRT

{Franz Hofer, 1914)

10 Thomas Elsaesser

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HEJMGF-KFHRT
(Franz Hofer, 1914)

display such a sophisticated grasp of filmic processes and contain so many references to the
cinematic situation as one of ‘doubleness’ that one is tempted to make ‘zweimal gelebt’ the
motto of Wilhelmine cinema itself. Yet for this very reason one must not jump to conclu-
sions, and differentiate between the formal analysis of such duality and duplicity (referring
us to the complex ontology of the cinema as representational mode), and the ‘political’ or
ideological interpretation these features invite as proof of a national style or the propensities
of the national character. The presence of motifs of the double and structures of sometimes
vertiginous symmetry in films like die schwarze kugel (ill. p. 275) and der mann im
keller (ill. p. 147) as well as the student of Prague or der andere indicates that the
dividing line between the self-consciously literary (and later, national) cinema known as the
Autorenfilm , and popular genre cinema comprising detective series, melodramas and come-
dies was not as sharp as is sometimes assumed. Nor does it mean the cinema of the teens
‘prepared’ the more illustrious twenties, other than across determinate continuities and
breaks, such as the essays that follow are trying to redefine.

The h i g h - br o w/1 o w - brow gap is not the only one open to revision. The fact that
the cinema in Germany has been, at least since World War L, judged as a political pheno-
menon has given rise to a number of ideological histories (about the cinema reflecting
authoritarian, nationalistic or racist values) and ideologies serving as histories (implicitly
told from the point of view of ‘art,’ of ‘realism,’ or of ‘progressiveness’). Such politicisation
assumes that German cinema, too, is part of that ‘Sonderweg’ (separate development) into
modernity, with all the catastrophic consequences implied in the titles of the German cine-
ma’s most famous studies, Siegfried Kracauer’s From Caligari to Hitler and Lotte Eisner’s
The Haunted Screen. Yet, with a national cinema that like no other has been open to retro-
spective teleologies, the first move of any reevaluation might just as plausibly be to question
this assumption, and plead for a certain ‘normalization.’

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Given the grave testimony of Kracauer and Eisner, however, the term ‘normali-
zation ’ must seem not only revisionist, but apologetic in intent, part of a by now notorious
tendency in recent historiography by which at least German art and culture might have their
innocence restored. Precisely because this is not my aim, I feel obliged to retain the term,
despite its ambiguous connotations. Two circumstances in particular make the word seem
apposite. Firstly, the focus here is indeed on a cinema that was normal, in the sense of ordi-
nary and widely available, and secondly, this cinema can only be understood within a com-
parative approach, one capable of establishing what might have been the ‘norm" or ‘norms’
of film style, of film production and film reception during any given period between the
years 1895 and 1917, against which exceptions (and possible ‘Sonderwege’) can then be
judged. So far, research into the primary material has above all yielded fragments, individu
al films isolated from the contexts they were once part of. The wider, comparative horizon
will hopefully readjust the picture. Film history in the eighties made it its aim to infer, test
and verify such norms, and to it we owe the work of Noel Burch and Barry Salt, Ben Brews-
ter, Tom Gunning and Charles Musser, 4 When one adds the monumental research enterprise
that has examined the origins and stabilisation of the ‘mode of production’ of classical Hol-
lywood cinema, 5 one realizes the potential rewards of proceeding in this way.

Since several authors in the present volume discuss the German cinema within
such a broadly comparative framework, 5 one can already deduce that as far as periodization
is concerned, the years 1902-1906 and (907-1913 are the crucial ones for understanding the
further history of cinema also in Germany. The first period consolidates exhibition practice
around fixed-site cinemas, creates a film business centred on the short film and the ‘num-
bers programme,’ and sees the change from buying and selling films to exchanging and
renting films. The second period has among its typical features the move from storefront
cinemas to purpose-built houses and movie palaces. With it comes the introduction of the
three to five-reel feature film (still surrounded by short films) as the presentational pro-
gramme norm. Around 1 9 10 one also finds the introduction of new strategies of distribution
and marketing, which in due course were to redefine crucially the social space and the
experience ‘cinema,’ giving it the shape it was to retain for the subsequent seventy years,
indeed almost up to the present day.

Thus, following on from the comparative perspective, to normalize early Ger-
man cinema means to ‘internationalize’ it, that is, to see its developments in more than a
one-country context. This seems the proper direction to take, not least because both the
legendary Brighton FTAF meeting of 1978 and the subsequent annual Pordenone retrospec-
tives have shown that film production and cinema exhibition up to World War I were a
highly international business, making nonsense of an idea of national cinema that does not
at the same time take note of tendencies in other major film producing countries, such as
France, Denmark, Italy and, of course, the United States. Only in the interplay between
different film industries can something like a nonn be framed that might in turn serve as
reference point to appraise German cinema. 7

12 Thomas Elsaesser

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‘Normalization’ and the ‘New Film History’

In this sense, the present volume reflects some of the priorities of what has come to be
known as the new film history . 8 Put briefly, its principles oblige one to look first of all at how
the cinema emerged and developed as an industry, what the nature of its ‘product’ or ‘serv-
ice’ was, how production, distribution and exhibition were organized at a given time and in
a given place, and finally, what other forms of popular entertainment similarly traded in
established cultural values or created new ones. But the ‘new’ film history is also a cultural
ethnography, asking what modes of perception and cognition the films first relied on or
simulated in their audiences; what other media were drawn into the struggle for the cine-
ma’s ‘right to be,’ and thus what social places and public spaces movie-going helped to
transform.

Such questions, of course, shift attention to areas of cinema studies where, in
Douglas Gomery’s memorable phrase, ‘film viewing is really an inappropriate research
method .' 9 It alerts one to issues of visual culture and modernity, as well as to the fact that
early German films do not always readily seduce the untutored eye; where they are unex-
pected, they do not always enchant (like early French Pathe films) or disturb (like Yevgenii
Bauer’s Russian films), where the narratives are formulaic, the film forms do not look famil-
iar (as in early American films), and where the acting is non-naturalistic, one does not mar-
vel at its extravangances (as in Italian diva films). At times, one has the feeling of no longer
possessing the cultural or emotional key to unlock their brittle charm. There are exceptions,
of course, like the films of Max Mack or Franz Hofer (two names featured prominently in
this volume), but with directors, one needs to be wary as to what one considers the norm and
what the exception. Are, for instance, the films of Bolten-Baeckers and Adolf Gartner the
norm, and those of Joseph Delmont and Charles Decroix the exception, and where does one
fit in the films of Emil Albes, Emerich Hanus or Walter Schmidthassler? Do directors matter
at all in this cinema, when they are often not even mentioned in the credits? How represent-
ative of German women were the roles played by Henny Porten, quite different not only
from those of Asta Nielsen, but also distinct from Dorrit Weixler’s or Wanda Treumann’s
parts, not to mention Ussy Nebuschka (known as the ‘German Asta Nielsen’) and Hanni
Weisse, or the two female stars created by Ernst Lubitsch in the mid-teens, Ossi Oswalda
and Pola Negri?

Fortunately, films in sufficient numbers have survived to preclude such ques-
tions from being purely rhetorical. Even if it should prove true that much of the early Ger-
man output looked inept in its day 10 or did badly in its home market , 11 the films remain an in-
valuable record for the roots of domestic and public leisure life, while printed sources, such
as trade journals, newspaper articles, hand bills and postcards testify to the popular appeal
of many German cinema stars and picture personalities. These are the areas where one can
expect new scholarship to make the most immediate impact, especially seeing how much of
the historical work done on early cinema in Germany over recent years owes its existence
either to anniversaries or to prestige cultural occasions at local and regional level . 12

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Yet this fieldwork, too, requires a certain amount of ‘normalization/ now under-
stood as the need to apply to German cinema studies a historically critical stance, where a
certain transparency in method and procedure refers itself to verifiable sources and opens up
to inspection its Filmic or printed evidence. Two exemplary studies, both the result of years
of painstaking research among archives, have helped to clear a path and indicate the nature
of the problems confronting the historian. Both are explicitly committed to the ‘new film
history,’ both recognize the need to rethink quite radically our approach to early German
cinema, and yet their methods as well as their conclusions could not be more different.

Although neither regards this cinema as a pre-history, one author sees it as a kind
of counter-history and draws as sharp as possible a contrast between Wilhelmine cinema
and Weimar cinema, a contrast allegedly due to profound structural changes in their respec-
tive ‘public spheres,’ Based on a new interpretation of the films considered as canonical
works, and conducting a careful study of the contemporary debates about reception and
audiences, Heide Schliipmann succeeds in making this cinema strange, different, and yet
familiar, fully justifying her title ‘The Uncanny Gaze.’ 13 Looked at from the vantage point of
a Weimar Cinema qualified as ‘patriarchal/ and concerned with ‘male potency/ Wilhelmine
cinema for Schliipmann appears as something like a refuge for a different conception of the
body and of femininity, one that offers especially the female spectator a novel form of visual
pleasure/ 4 What links her work to the ‘new film history’ is the fact that Unheimlichkeit des
Blicks is not a positivist-archival history, but one guided by a number of theoretical con-
cepts, above all the distinction, first formulated by Tom Gunning, between a ‘cinema of
attraction’ and the classical narrative cinema as a ‘cinema of narrative integration/ 15 which
Schliipmann both genders and periodizes, seeing those features as symptomatic for German
film history.

Just how different a starting point has been chosen by Corinna Muller becomes
evident when one realizes that her book does not discuss individual films at all, steers clear
of past and present theorists, and sets out to challenge the very distinction attraction/narra-
tive integration which forms the conceptual basis of Schliipmann’s study. Muller begins by
asking herself why Germany, given its above average interest in living pictures and its po-
tentially huge market, apparently did not develop a thriving indigenous film production on a
sound economic basis until after the Great War? The traditional answer is that the German
bourgeoisie was culturally prejudiced against the cinema, and thus industrialists and finance
capital doubted the cinema’s long-term prospects and refused to invest. This seems classical
‘retrospective teleology’ even if for once of an economic rather than ideological kind.

Muller’s Friihe deutsche Kinematographie is a case study rather than a compre-
hensive history, which nonetheless helps to recast a good deal of the early history, not least
because it convincingly shows that the German cinema of the first two decades, when meas-
ured by international criteria, behaved in ways exceedingly ‘normal/ 15 She took the evi-
dence amassed in regional and local studies about exhibitors, picture houses, programme
bills, admission prices, advertising in the newspapers in order to build her case, outlining a

14 Thomas Elsaesser

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comparative framework and making visible a causal nexus within which a more plausible,
because immanent and structural, reason can be given for why German film production did
not develop in quite the same way as it did in Denmark or even France,

Far from being anarchic, haphazard and amateurish, the early German film busi-
ness, according to Muller, followed very distinct patterns and organizational principles,
namely, those of the variety theatre. In particular, two principles typical of variety - the
programming policy and its internal structure - survived the variety show as the dominant
form of mass entertainment, remaining in place and exerting a determining influence on the
development of fixed-site cinemas in Germany. The German film business, in other words,
developed (just like the American and British one) as an exhibition-led industry whose com-
modity or product was the short film-based numbers programme, with editorial (but also
economic) control largely in the hands of exhibitors. A cut-throat competition among cine-
mas in this exhibition-led industry used up vast quantities of film, devaluing films so fast
that the profit margins for home producers practically disappeared and the business sucked
in cheap foreign (mainly French) imports. Only when this vicious cycle was broken and
profitability restored by means of a novel distribution system did German film production
take off, and it did so well before the war and thus without the artificial barriers to imports
that the outbreak of hostilities between France and Germany created.

Certain new research perspectives are opened up by this argument, both nation-
ally (encouraging one to find out more about the exhibition situation, the variety theatre and
the numbers principle, with its own aesthetic and narrative coherence) 17 and internationally
(to identify how exactly the balance of power on the German market shifted from exhibition
to distribution and production when films began to circulate according to the Pathe system
that first institutionalized artificial scarcity of access and put a premium on priority). To this
day, the same manipulation of time and location advantage typifies the rationale of cinema
chains and the practice of exclusivity. The findings also suggests that it makes sense to
divide the first decades more clearly into distinct phases, with one belonging to the ‘pio-
neers’ (and their different definitions of the uses of the cinema), while the others are centred
on the constitution of a ‘market’ (national and international) as well as a standard product,
which in turn defines not a use, but an experience, itself differentiated by genres, stars,
audiences and exhibition spaces. What follows is a sketch of some of the implications, when
considering periodization along these lines.

The Beginnings up to 1907: Showmen and Pioneers

Although it seems perverse to argue that the cinema was not ‘invented’ in France, it is
nonetheless true that Max and Emil Skladanowsky showed projected moving images to a
paying public at the Berlin Wintergarten on 1 November 1895, almost two months earlier
than the Lumiere brothers’ performance at the Salon Indien of the Grand-Cafe. Max Skla-
danowsky, a typical fairground operator and showman, began experimenting with ‘living
photography’ around 1887. From 1 892, in collaboration with his brother Emil, he construct-

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ed an ingenious if inelegant double projection apparatus which he patented in 1 895 under
the name of ‘Bioskopf Running at 16 frames per second with two identical film strips pro-
jected simultaneously, while a rotating shutter alternately masked one image on each pro-
jector, the Bioskop proved a technically imperfect, but nonetheless solidly popular variety
attraction , !S

Even chauvinists would have to agree, though, that it was the Cinematographe
Lumiere that brought moving pictures to Germany and secured their popular success. A
noted chocolate manufacturer and slotmachine operator, Ludwig Stollwerck showed an ear-
ly interest in commercially exploiting the Lumiere invention in Germany, 19 He also contact-
ed R.W. Paul, the British manufacturer who had successfully copied Edison’s kinetoscope.
Stollwerck left important eyewitness accounts of the coming of the movies, unique in their
vividness and sharp insights. 20 Lumiere operators toured Germany from 1896 onwards, and
in their wake a number of notable showmen plied their trade with tent-movies and Wan-
derkinos, making the cinematograph known in neighbouring countries, such as The Nether-
lands and Belgium, and setting up successful businesses that lasted well into the first dec-
ade. 21

The real competition to the Lumiere Brothers’ projector in Germany, however,
were the machines devised by Oskar Messter, the Wilhelmine cinema’s first universal film
genius. He alone, for a brief period, combined all the functions which were eventually sep-
arated under a rigid division of labour: inventor of an improved projector, manufacturer of
photographic and cinematic equipment, head of a film production company, director of
‘Tonbilder’ (sound-on-disk filmed opera-scenes), 22 fictional scenarios and actualities (he
pioneered the newsreel), distributor and even cinema owner. 23 Since his career spans the
entire period of early cinema, and since he was able to sell his companies to the consortium
that set. up Ufa, Messter is indeed an emblematic figure in many respects, serving as found-
ing father, as the human face and ‘character’ in an industry increasingly run according to
established business practices. As a filmmaker-producer Messter covered the entire range of
popular film subjects and genres: scenics and actualities, detective films and social dramas,
domestic melodrama and historical epics, romantic comedies, operas and operettas. He also
helped lay the foundation for the German star system, for among the actors who started with
Messter were the leading names of the German silent era: Henny Porten, Lil Dagover, Ossi
Oswalda, Emil Jannings, Harry Liedtke, Harry Piel, Reinhold Schiinzel, Conrad Veidt.
Messter, more than anyone else, determined the future shape of German commercial cine-
ma, and the titles in his catalogue alone were indicative of the thrills and pleasures the
cinema offered audiences by way of entertainment, show values, sensations and sentiment.
His literary adaptations were distinctly middle-brow: hits from the burgeoning mass-market
in printed fiction, folklore and fantasy, or the popular culture on offer from the related
entertainment media: operetta, folk theatre, variety acts, solo performers of songs made
familiar by the sale of sheet music and gramophones.

Yet Messter’s almost mythical reputation as everyone’s favourite image of the

16 Thomas Elsaesser

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Wilhelmine modernity: The Kaiser as gramophone scar ana meuia manipulator

cinema’s inventor-engineer -entrepreneur must not obscure a distinctive feature, not shared
by those who followed: to him, making films for public exhibition was only one aspect of
the invention we call the cinema. If one looks at the rivals for the claim of having pioneered
and invented the cinema in Germany - Messter and Skladanowsky, Alfred Duskes and Paul
Davidson - the distinction to draw is thus not between documentary and fictional, and not
even between the scientific-analytical uses of the cinematic apparatus and the illusory-syn-
thetic ones , 14 it turns on their relative conception of the social significance of the device
itself. The Skladanowsky Brothers were inventors and showmen, they backed the cinemato-
graph rather than X-rays as a novelty which would attract an audience. As their efforts were
directed towards exploiting the cinema as a form of entertainment, so Messter efforts were
guided by an inventor-engineer’s way of thinking. Not content with attracting a paying
public to his shows, he wrote to schools, retired army officers, and state officials suggesting
a variety of uses for the cinematograph, including scientific, military, educational, adminis-
trative and investigative ones . 25 The other important aspect of Messter’s thinking was entre-
preneurial: unlike the Skladanowsky s, he successfully monopolized and integrated the var-
ious stages of the whole cinematic process, building his own projectors and cameras, mak-
ing the films himself and distributed them, much as the Pathe Brothers were to do in France.
Like them, Messter realized at a very early stage that a crucial aspect of cinema is to exert
and maintain control over all the diverse associated technologies and practices.

The modernity of his strategies lies at the heart of Messter’s relevance for the
development of the German cinema. Style, genre or subject matter were for him, during the
first decade at least, a matter of assigning to the invention different exploitation contexts: a
modus operandi, in other words, which shuffled the elements of cinema - technology, films,
users - so that films were exchange values that commanded different use- values, rather than
vice versa, in contrast to the second decade, when the fixed use value ‘entertainment’ was

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detnographically and culturally upgraded via exclusivity (restriction of access) and longer
films to suit (or lure) a better-paying public. Messter adapted to the second phase as well,
perhaps because he understood how to develop cinema around its capacity to combine serv-
ices to different users with supplying commodities to a single market. This distinguishes
him not only from the ‘scientific’ strand for whom the cinematograph was a precision in-
strument (Etienne-Jules Marey), but also from those who were supposedly gripped by a
‘gothic’ male obsession and, like Frankenstein, wanted to recreate artificially and mechan-
ically the very essence of life. Noel Burch identified this tendency with Thomas Edison, 26
but it could be said to lie also behind the fantasy of German cinema, if one’s view of this
cinema is shaped by homunculi and mad scientists, by Dr Caligari and his medium Cesare,
by Dr Mabuse and the Golem, by Nosferatu and his vampire acolytes, by Rotwang and his
robot from metropolis. Nevertheless, there is a sense in which Messter the inventor, the
optical instrument and precision engineer, partook in a fantasy that went beyond the scien-
tific desire to see more closely, to trace what escapes the human eye, and to generally inten-
sify the look. Just visible behind Messter’s bonhomie and factory-owner's pride are the
bachelor machines that Villiers de LTle-Adam described in his famous Edison novel, L'Eve
future, where the combined alchemy of optical, electrical and chemical substances do in-
deed constitute something like a new life elixier.

Finally, Messter’s resourcefulness when it came to new uses for the cinematic
apparatus, among which spectacles for public viewing were only one instance, marks a
possible limit for the ‘cinema of attractions,’ since the term suggests that one can seize in
one particular use - that of entertainment — a multiplicity of what are more properly ‘appli-
cations,’ whose histories, as we now realize in the age of ‘smart’ bombs, micro-surgery and
surveillance cameras, had - after Messter - temporarily gone ‘underground,’ while the en-
tertainment cinema with the feature film at its centre became the publicly most visible face
of these applications. 37 On the other hand, the ‘cinema of attractions’ directs our attention to
exhibition sites and audiences, rather than production sites and makers.

Not the Film but the Programme

A cinema performance around 1907 was still modelled very closely on Germany’s highly
developed variety culture, with its own sequence of attractions, ranging from gags and com-
ic sketches, via sentimental duos, acrobatic acts and magic tricks to dances, review numbers
and solo performances from famous plays, operettas or favourite operas. 28 The still extant
films made between 1896 and 1906 bear out the pattern. Max Skladanowsky’s 1897 views
of Berlin (die wache tritt ans gewehr), the comic turns (brothers milton komisches
reck), or the quite carefully staged street scenes (eine kleine szene aus dkm strassen-
leben IN Stockholm) in which too much comic or mock-dangerous business is going on to
be taken in at one viewing all confirm that these films were made with an already constitut-
ed entertainment audience in mind. Subject matter and formal were determined by the dou-

18 Thomas Elsaesser

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1896/97: Note the yet
tenuous presence of the
cinema in the variety
context, e.g. the an-
nouncement of Messter’s
Biograph at the bottom
of the Wintergarten
programme and the
‘Living photographes’ at
the Hermfeld theatre;
also present are the
operetta and music hall
intertext, with the future
film subject ‘Robert und
Bertram/ Both the
Metropol and the Apollo
theatres were soon to
become luxury cinemas.

ble media intertext of variety theatre and music theatre, or even the exhibition context of
fairground and circus.

In many of these ‘genres / Pathe and Gaumont were the uncontested world lead-
ers, But Messier, too, had different numbers in production, ranging from musical preludes,
actualities, comic turns, dramatic sketches, slapstick (‘derb-komisch’) and sentimental dra-
ma (‘Riihrstiick’). He even did multiple versions: one could buy an ‘artistic’ dance of
salome and, for specialized audiences, a ‘blue movie’ version . 29 Where his firm had a com-
manding lead was in the Tonbilder’ - more popular in Germany and Austria than elsewhere
in Europe - which required from cinema-owners substantially higher investments in techni-
cal apparatus and operating costs, a telling disadvantage when it came to the price wars
investigated by Muller. Audiences expected the spectacle to be discontinuous and varied:

The room is darkened- Suddenly we float on the Ganges, palms. The Temple of
the Brahmins appears. A silent family drama rages, with bon vivants, a masquer-
ade, a gun is pulled. Jealousies are inflamed. Herr Piefke duels headlessly and
then they show us, step by step, mountaineers climbing the steep demanding
paths. The paths lead down to forests, they twist and climb the threatening cliff.
The view into the depths is enlivened by cows and potatoes. Then the arc lamp
hissingly announces the end. Lights! And we push ourselves into the open day-
light, horny and yawning. 3 "

19 Early German Cinema

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These quick changes of story and scene, in a programme that would have been made up of
around eight to ten different items, none longer than three minutes, is typical for the cinema
in its variety theatre phase. Given the innumerable accounts, mostly by writers and intellec-
tuals, of the typical film performance, one has the impression of a chaotic, disorderly, hap-
hazard accumulation of bits-and-pieces:

As simple as the reflex of pleasure is the stimulus that provokes it: detective
stories with a dozen corpses, one chase of the villains more hair-raising than the
next in rapid sequence: grossest sentimentality: the blind beggar is dying and his
dog sits faithfully by his grave, A piece with the title ‘Honour the Poor’ or ‘The
Lobster Queen.’ Gunboats: and when the Kaiser or his generals appear on parade
not the slightest sign of patriotism moves the spectators; rather, snide and spite-
ful surprise. 31

The fact that few of these films have survived can only reinforce the impression of volatile
inconsequence. But a study of the trade-press and more bread-and-butter reviewing indicate
that cinema-owners had a very sophisticated sense of how to schedule the films into a pro-
gramme, with its own dramatic shape, planned transitions and overall unity, no less coher-
ent than the variety programme it replaced. The episodic and fragmented nature of the spec-
tacle was further mitigated by the presence of the lecturer (‘der Erklarer’) who would pro-
vide a running commentary, sometimes explaining the action, but more often making
irreverent jokes and improvising little routines. Between the disparate segments he was not
only the link, but also the filter, the frame and the perspective, shifting and varied, through
which the audience experienced the spectacle. The power of the word, as opposed to music
was of crucial importance here, for the lecturer’s ironic distance to the action allowed an
audience to respond with that hostility or hilarity towards figures like the Kaiser Wilhelm II
-‘first German movie star’- which Dbblin (in 1 909!) mentions. 12 Miihl-Benninghaus, below,
confirms this point when he quotes the derisive reaction of soldiers in the Frontkinos when
faced with so-called authentic war footage in the newsreels: they jeered back at the screen,
insulted at the sight of so much improbability, and so blatant a propaganda effort. His com-
ment can usefully be compared with that of Egon Friedell who remarked that the cinema
was an ‘expression of our time - short, rapid, military’ 23 and contrasted with the view of
film historian Friedrich v. Zglinicki, who argues that the authorities tried to get rid of the
‘Erklarer,’ because they suspected him of stoking up ‘class hatred,’ an accusation made by
the right, but which found a curious echo in the objections to the cinema voiced by left-wing
‘Kino-reformers':

For the capitalist it is a business, and among the exploited are not only the poorly
paid projectionists, pianists, lecturers; the exploited are above all the audience,
the mass whose voyeurism, hunger for sensations and receptivity for erotic stim-
ulation are the targets of the cinema entrepreneurs’ speculative calculations, and
in whose interest it is to constantly increase these show-values (...). The direc-

20 Thomas Elsaesser

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tion of their efforts is thus diametrically opposed to the tasks and goals of adult
education and other cultural movements. But just as threatened by the cinema as
social ethics, public morality and sexual calm is the physical health of the popu-
lation. 34

One can here see that such a programme did not reflect a ‘national identity’ or nationalist
ideology. Rather, it represented the cinema’s most international phase, as can be judged
when viewing samples from different countries - at festivals like Pordenone - where a
remarkable degree of homogeneity, if not in quality (very variable), then in genres and
modes, quickly (re-)creates what must have been a comforting sense of familiarity, It sug-
gests, beyond individual talent and national particularity, the strong pressure on the makers
exerted by a well-defined and stable set of spectatorial expectations. However, given the
comments just quoted, one can understand why this cinema was nevertheless an ‘ideologi-
cal’ battleground, even if the political lines were almost impossible to draw. Its ease of
access, unpoliced transnational trade and quasi -universal popularity made it a natural melt-
ing-pot of good intentions and paranoid fantasies among reformers, teachers, politicians,
trade-unionists and social workers. The more valuable, even if less colourful, information
about film- watching up to 1910 therefore does not generally come from the writers or poets,
but from the reformers and their volunteers, whose field reports one has to read only slightly
against the grain, in order to gain useful first-hand data about composition of audiences,
programme content and numbers sequence, as well as about the physical conditions of the
cinemas as more or less salubrious public spaces. 35 Among the colourful accounts, another
passage from Alfred Doblin can be cited, who draws attention to the location of cinemas
before 1910 in working-class districts, the so-called Ladenkinos (converted shop cinemas):

A typical 1890s variety programme (left) and the cinema programme that replaced it (right)

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21 Early German Cinema

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They’re in the north, the south, the east, the west side of town, in smoke filled
rooms, sheds, disused shops, large halls, wide fronted theatres (...) but only the
low haunts in the North have the special genre, on a level well above the mere
artistic Inside, at the end of a pitch-dark room with low ceiling, the square
of the screen, six foot high, no bigger than a man, shines across the monstrous
public, a mass mesmerized and rooted to their seats, by this white eye with its
rigid stare. Pairs of lovers are squeezed in the comer, but carried away by what
they see, their unchaste fingers stop pawing each others’ bodies. Consumptive
children breathe flat gasps of air, and shiver quietly through every bout of fever.
The men, exuding unpleasant smells, stare until their eyes are ready to fall out of
their sockets. The women, in stale-smelling clothes, the painted street whores
are bent forward on the edge of their seats oblivious to the fact that their head-
scarf has slid down their neck. 36

Ddblin’s graphic description from 1909 implicitly concedes that these types of theatres had
by then already become exotic, which refers one back to the fact that what ultimately deter-
mined the production of films was the ‘production’ of audiences. The variety format, as well
as the wide spectrum of admission prices (from 30 pfennig to 3 marks) indicates that early
cinema - contrary to what historians have sometimes claimed - was not aimed at working
class audiences alone, but catered for demographically broad target groups, and numbered
among its audiences men, women and children, with young males already then forming the
majority among the cinema-going public, although in one source, a clear distinction is made
between ‘errand boys’ whiling away time between odd-jobs and ‘young men from the pub-
lic schools’ hoping for a sexual conquest. 37

In the same vein, it has been argued by the noted sociologist Emilie Altenloh that
early German cinema was particularly aware of its female audiences, feeding a veritable
‘cinema-addiction’ not only with genres of gender-specific appeal such as mother-daughter
stories, dramas of shipwrecked lovers and women waiting, but also in comedies where
women had the freedom to invent for themselves sexual identities by putting on men’s
clothes (so-called ‘Hosenrollen’) or, as female detectives, gain visual and vicarious access
to social spaces and thus to experiences normally out of bounds to women, whether married
or unmarried. 3K

Creating a Stable Market and Attracting a Middle-Class Audience

What was the German cinema’s domestic production base which supplied this demand? It
seems that prior to 1911 filmmaking in Germany suffered from an apparently inordinate
number of small firms (Georges Sadoul lists 51) 39 eking out a precarious existence. The
major production firms were Messter (see Martin Koerber), Alfred Duskes (with its Pathe
connections, see Frank Kessler/Sabine Lenk), Vitascope, Projektions-AG ‘Union’ (Paul
Davidson, see Peter Lahn), Deutsche Bioskop and, finally, Deutsche Continental. 40 Al-
though the history of production companies is still one of the least researched areas of early

22 Thomas Elsaesser

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German film, and although the figures published in trade journals are notoriously difficult to
verify, it is variously estimated that during the period 1905-1910 only about 10% of the
films shown in Germany were of German manufacture, with French film imports (30%), US
(25%), Italian (20%) and Scandinavian (15%) making up the majority shares. 41 Herbert
Birett’s Index of Films Shown roughly confirms these percentages, but since a listing by
titles gives little information about the number of prints (or feet of film) imported, no con
elusions can be drawn from such figures about relative popularity and market penetration.
According to the ‘feet-of-film-imported’ calculated by Kristin Thompson, about 30% of all
films show in Germany during this period were of American origin 41 which would put U.S.
imports slightly ahead of French ones. A popular joke about French films in Germany im-
plied that by the outbreak of the war, Pathe had recouped more money from exporting to the
German market with its films than the French government had paid in reparations after the
Franco-Prussian war of 1870- 187 1. 43 Whatever the truth or source of this story, it takes for
granted the fact that Pathe was the most important single foreign force in Germany. The
essay by Sabine Lenk and Frank Kessler greatly illuminates this vexed question of the
French presence, letting us see how involuted the trading relations between the two coun
tries were, and how even such detailed studies as theirs do not allow one to generalize about
either impact or influence of the foreign firms and their films. Emilie Altenloh - quite help-
fully - identifies in her 1914 study the German-origin films shown in the cinemas neither as
a total figure nor in percentage terms, but by genres. Accordingly, it seems for instance, that
under ‘drama,’ German productions did relatively well (12%), whereas under the heading
‘humorous sketches’ only 3% of her sample were German. But here, too, one needs to bear
in mind that one reason why foreign competition was so strong was that both French and
American firms could offer German exhibitors whole programme packages, compared to
domestic producers who were often limited to one or two genres.

Almost as difficult is an objective assessment of the exhibition basis. Corinna
Muller has provided valuable new information, especially for the first decade, which shows
that cinema-going reached quickly and deeply into the social fabric, both in the countryside
and the cities. Again, figures that simply compute one type of exhibition venue can give a
misleading picture: ‘In 1902 Germany had only two fixed site cinemas (in Hamburg and
Wurzburg), twelve years later (at the start of the war) several thousands had opened their
doors, with an estimated two million attendances a day. In England, by 1912, there were six
thousand, and in the USA fourteen thousand cinemas.’ 44 This suggests that Germany was
not one of the world’s leading cinema nations, when in fact, due to its size and population,
it has always been the largest European market, for domestic as well as foreign firms.

Generally, the picture of a rapidly growing infrastructure of cinemas seems cor-
rect, but statistics adduced by Georges Sadoul try to show that, compared with other coun-
tries, there were fewer cinemas for a population as large and as urban as that of industrial-
ized Germany, 45 The same figures are used by Dieter Prokop, in order to argue that the
cinema was, after all, an underdeveloped business in Germany, with the implication that the

Early German Cinema

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weakness of the exhibition sector was largely to blame for the backwardness of German
film production. 46

Here, more detailed field-work brings some necessary corrections. In his essay,
Peter Lahn traces the rise of entrepreneur Paul Davidson, who opened his first picture pal-
ace in 1906 and by 1910 had built up a sizeable chain of 600-1000 seater luxury cinemas. It
is therefore around this time that financial power can be seen to concentrate itself in the
hands of certain exhibitors, who chose to become themselves large-scale buyers and import-
ers, and thus distributors, in order to supply their venues. Similarly, as Evelyn Hampicke
points out, a cinema-owner like Paul Oliver could amass not only a fortune in exhibition, but
develop into a force to be reckoned with at the level of distribution and even production,
within a relatively short space of time, right in the middle of the war.

What actually marks the transition from the first to the second decade most deci-
sively is that the exponentially rising demand up to 1905 had in fact, by about 1906-1907,
stabilized and even started a downward trend. Trade journals talked about a deep crisis,
cinemas closed, and commentators predicted with unconcealed glee the terminal decline of
this five-day wonder of which the public had already tired. What actually happened was a
structural transformation, so that in order to understand the crisis in cinema-going around
1907, and the structural changes that remedied it, one has to move decisively away from the
films themselves, as well as from looking for the reasons among the lack of interest by
financiers or lack of talent among production companies. As we saw, attention must focus
on the way films were traded and how they were presented. The emergence of a national
cinema in the first instance depends on building up an institution - of which production is
only one part - whose purpose it is to ensure that spectators do not just see this or that
particular film, but come back, time and again, week after week. 47

Stars and Genres

What typifies the second phase, in Germany as elsewhere, then, is initially the fact that a
generation of cinema entrepreneurs came on the scene who understood how to build these
audiences by building better cinemas, in more glamorous locations. If the first decade, em-
blematically, is that of Oskar Messter, the second belongs to the Paul Davidsons and David
Olivers, entering the film business from the exhibition side, before moving to distribution
and production, and in the process, becoming at once experts in the local (what customers in
Frankfurt or Breslau, Hamburg or Dresden ‘want’) and the global (where to find what they
want in the international market: Davidson with Pathe, Oliver with Nordisk).

For only once the distribution practice of the Monopolfilm - the ‘solution’ to the
crisis and the ‘engine’ for restructuring the exhibition sector by bankrupting smaller cine-
ma-owners - had established itself as the norm, did the domestic production sector begin to
be profitable again, which often enough was by then in the hands of exhibitors (to Davidson
and Oliver, one should add the names of Ludwig Gottschalk and Martin Deutler). Due to
their money and buying power the film business witnessed the extraordinary expansion of

24 Thomas Elsaesser

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production and the experiment of the full-length feature film between 1911 and 1913, to
which the German cinema owed its first flourishing of a narrative star and-genre cinema,' 43
It helped to bring into existence a production profile that included the famous Autorenfilm
and Paul Wegener’s mock-gothic fairy-tales, as well as helping Asta Nielsen to her well-
deserved national and international fame.

It is at this point that Asta Nielsen properly comes into the picture, whose mag-
netic pull greatly aided the establishment of the Monopolfilm as the dominant business
practice, and the star as its most visible embodiment. We know that Nielsen is central to
early German cinema, but we can now see that the logic that propelled her is almost directly
inverse to the way it is traditionally pictured, where the Nielsen films are said to be the
breakthrough to screen art, finally freeing the cinema from its commercial constraints. 49 It
would be more accurate to say that because of the commercial imperatives of making films
more valuable by creating the scarcity called ’Monopol’ or exclusivity, introduced in order
to halt overproduction and thus the collapse of prices and profits, an actress like Asta
Nielsen could attain the fame she did. That the kind of surplus exhibition- value she brought
to the film-product was not grounded in her films’ artistic ambition, but in their universal
appeal is usefully demonstrated when one recalls that one of the first successful Monopol
films on offer for distribution by PAGU, Nielsen’s future business partners, was not a dra-
matic film at all, but the Johnson vs, Jeffries boxing match from July 1910 in Reno. As in the
United States, then, the consolidation of the new commodity ‘cinema’ in Germany emerges
out of a combination of longer films, restriction of access, transformation of programming
policy, and building up of picture personalities or ‘stars.’

The shift of emphasis draws attention to one feature in particular: the connection
of the cinema to the world of commerce and marketing, of consumer goods, fashion, life-
style, travel - what used to be called, dismissively ‘Die Konfektion’ (the rag trade). One can
clearly observe it in the example of Ernst Lubitsch, brought from the theatre to filmmaking
by Davidson, and whose early films were frequently set in the milieu of garment shops or
department stores (see Karsten Witte’s essay on schuhpalast pinkus). Featuring locations
and intrigues that effectively mirrored or parodied the cinema itself, the films not only ex-
posed how clever young men were making their fortune by trading on the vanities and
anxieties of a new breed of (often female) consumers. Lubitsch also understood - and dem-
onstrated in action - how in this world of make-believe, imposture can become itself a
higher form of sincerity, and flattery the subtle pact film stars conclude with their public.

It is sometimes argued that the early cinema knew no picture personalities, since
the mix of programme numbers did not allow for either individuation or identification. But
what one finds in the German cinema, from the first Messter production onwards, are star
performers. Admired for their special skills and extraordinary talents, proven in the per-
formance arts of circus and variety, these were artists doing lightning sketches, strongmen
like the Brothers Milton, operetta virtuosi like Franz Porten, Tilly Bebe the Lion Tamer,
magicians, gagmen and gymnasts, Thomas Brandlmeier’s essay on German film comedy

25 Early German Cinema

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gives a good indication of how this world of skilled performers, with names like Josef Gi-
ampietro, Alexander Girardi, Hans Junkermann (the lead player of wo ist coletti?, dis-
cussed in several essays), Wilhelm Bendow, and, of course, Karl Valentin, formed the bed-
rock of the early cinema, in its crossover phase with variety theatre, which found itself
mostly written out of film history. This is because scholars of German cinema - with the
exception perhaps of Barry Salt 50 - have not paid the necessary attention to operetta as
perhaps the key genre and media intertext that shaped the German cinema. A form as cru-
cially dependent on music was unlikely to catch the attention of those looking for the roots
of ‘silent cinema,’ but the example of Messter’s Tonbilder, the plots of so many German
films from the teens and early twenties, 51 and the strongly developed music cultures in Ger-
many at all social levels amount to incontrovertible (though even in this volume under-
represented) evidence for suggesting that popular and middle-brow' music forms and music
tastes may well be the hitherto hidden ‘norm’ of the early German cinema of the 1 902-1909
period. 52

In comparison to the vaudeville and variety theatre performers, it is fair to say
that the picture personalities of the second phase were built up differently. In its links with
‘die Konfektion,’ the cinema’s chief assets were stars who could be loved not for special
skills, but for what might be called their uncommon typicality or special ordinariness. Hen-
ny Porten as much as Hanni Weisse, Ernst Reicher or Harry Piel provided the role models
for an upwardly mobile audience, showing to perfection how to behave as governess,
daughter, or unmarried mother, and sporting the clothes, the gestures and attitudes fitting
the man about town, the gentleman or intrepid detective.

Since genres are the conduits for stereotyping socially acceptable and transgres-

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sive behaviour, they are the most obvious ways in
which the cinema interfaces with its public, and
thus with the situated knowledge, the prejudices
and preferences, in short, with the cultural codes
but also the shifting norms and values of a given
community. The specificity of a nation’s cinema
might therefore be most readily accessible via the
genres its audiences preferred. For reasons that are
touched on in the essays by Tilo Knops and Sebas-
tian Hesse, but also Sabine Hake, the detective
film is not only a key genre for certain processes
of self-definition and self-reflexivity regarding the

cinema as a whole, raising questions of narrative, fosef Giampietro

plotting, agency and so on, but via its rich interna-
tional pedigree (notably Danish and French, as well as American) locates the early German
cinema firmly in the crucial arguments about modernity, the city and nostalgia.

It is true that in Germany’s genre cinema one can note some specific variations,
so that, for instance, the general star cult included the particular cultural capital associated
with a ‘name’ from the stage or the literary establishment (from Albert Bassermann and
Paul Wegener as key actors, to Hugo von Hofmannsthal, Gerhart Hauptmann and Paul
Lindau as representatives of the literary establishment). Yet the principle remained largely
the same, and it indicates that Germany, on the eve of the world war, was poised to experi-
ence an expansion of production as well as a concentration of all the branches of the film
business which together amount to the quantum leap that led to a qualitative change. Into
this situation, the outbreak of hostilities in 1914 could only have sown confusion, since in

view of the more muted and indirect causal nexus outlined
here between cinema and politics, the impact of the war on
the film business is far from easy to determine. 53 Rather than
assuming, as film historians have tended to do, that the war
meant a radical rupture in the German film business, either in
order to explain why the German cinema only ‘properly’ got
under way after 19 18, or to argue the inverse, namely that the
import restrictions and the absence of foreign competition
from 1914 onwards stimulated the growth of German domes-
tic production, a careful reading of the evidence now sug-
gests a more nuanced judgement. 54

The essays by Jeanpau! Goergen and Rainer
Rother, for instance, indicate how closely self-advertising for
the cinema, product promotion and military propaganda be-
long together, so that the divide between the industrial adver-

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Albert tfassermann and Hanm Weisse in der ampere (1913)

tising film, the military propaganda discourse, and what Sabine Hake names self-referenti-
ality in early German cinema is often difficult to draw, indicating that the whole issue of
fiction and non-fiction, of documentary, faked footage, and the Kulturfilm so typical for
German cinema in its reform-movement phase'’ 5 needs to be looked at anew, in the light of
the rediscovery of both filmic and non-filmic evidence.

Among the ‘rediscovered’ non-fiction films of the teens, one of the key works
must surely be a Messter production from 1916, now only known under its post-war title,
which translates as the poldihutte steelworks during the great war. As Kimberly
O’ Quinn points out, there are at least three distinct genres or discourses skilfully interwoven
and present simultaneously: that of the industrial advertising film, the technology-as-spec-
tacle ‘cinema of attractions’ genre, and finally, we find here the blueprint for the formally
experimental, ideologically complex ‘city film’ one usually only associates with the twen-
ties. poldihutte raises once more all the issues of the argumentative structuring and visual
patterning of non-fiction material debated in the seventies among film scholars when re-
assessing the Lumiere heritage of the factory film (process-as -progress forming a strong
basis for narrativity). At the same time, poldihutte also gives a most intriguing twist to the
standard industrial film, whose routine narrative (taking the viewer from raw materials to
finished product, followed by display, dispatch, consumption) cannot but be highly ironic,
and - one assumes - not only in retrospect, when one realizes that the products here readied
for consumption are grenades, as beautifully ominous and ominously beautiful as such fet-
ish objects of male technology are depicted in the films of Walter Ruttmann or Fritz Lang.

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In poldihutte a form of detached, dare one say, lyrical gaze motivates the slow
pans, the atmospheric images, the precision editing. An eerily ordered life of the city-facto-
ry of the future is captured in the drama of a steel-mill in a rural setting, living from smoke
and fire, from heat and noise, driven by machines to which are attached the armies of men
and women toiling on the shop-floors and in the yards, but also the white-coated lab techni-
cians and engineers. The film is poised on the cusp between a 19th century mode of percep-
tion that turns a man-made environment into a natural idyll, for the benefit of a self-flatter-
ing contemplation of human progress, and a 20th century constructivist view of the first
machine age, with the machines themselves — veritable anthropomorphic monsters - repre-
senting only one species of mutant creatures in the huge hangars to be erected, or amongst
the test stations, where crankshafts are turned for aeroplanes, and giant suspension springs
predict the pressures and shocks the new century is called upon to absorb. It is as if the
filmmakers, commissioned to promote the propaganda effort of the German Reich, had
already realized how heavy industry and warfare, mass-production and mass-destruction
were to become the dominant face of the century, poldihutte is the recto to metropolis’
verso, indicating that Lang’s film may be looking back at Wilhelmine military ‘modernism’
as much as it agonizes over its fascination with American ‘Fordism.’

On the whole, then, the war affected the institution cinema in Germany quite
unevenly, helping some branches to come into their own, but also posing new challenges to
the production side which already experienced its major upturn before August/September
19 14. 56 If at first, the rather extreme (and as Muhl-Benninghaus below points out, unwork-
able) censorship measures took their toll, it seems that by 1916, the industry was booming
again, before the severe shortages around 1917-19)8 once more reduced production output.
Films as exceptionally rich by any reckoning as das tagf.buch des dr. hart, poldihutte,
homunculus or der gelbe schein - to name only those that are mentioned in the essays
here from the years 1916/1917 - give some indication of the diversity which the feature-
length production in Germany was capable of sustaining. The only assertion one can there-
fore make with some confidence is that the war distorted the ‘natural’ economic develop-
ment of the German film business, just as Germany’s defeat severely handicapped it, mainly
because of export embargoes, loss of audiences in occupied territories (such as Belgium),
and the general shrinking of the market that had been available to German films during the
war when the exhibition base had artificially expanded with Frontkinos, for instance. As it
happens, not the end of the war per se, but another external economic factor, Germany’s
hyper-inflation in 1921, became the main catalyst of its international recovery, but that is
another story. 57

Forms of Perception and Constructions of Space

Thus, rather than dwell only on the economic or institutional infrastructure, it seems impor-
tant to begin to assess anew the effects that the revolution in exhibition practice, the move
upmarket into consumer culture, and the shift to the full-length feature film as the central

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element of the programme were introducing to film form and film style. As several contrib-
utors point out, in this respect, the teens in Europe generally and in Germany in particular
have not fared well in the critical literature. Often seen as ‘derivative,’ ‘transitional,’ ‘back-
ward,' the films are above all, because of the middle-class orientation, considered as either
irritatingly enslaved or interestingly indebted to the theatre and the (bourgeois) stage. With
the theatre as (negative) ‘norm’ in mind, the production of the teens can then be checked for
exceptional works that clearly do not have the stage as pretext. Conversely, the films can
find themselves severely judged in comparison to an international contemporary practice
that had already left the theatre behind, developing more intrinsically filmic means of story-
telling. This is the case made, for instance, by Barry Salt, who is not at all surprised that
even German audiences shunned domestic productions in favour of American films, given
their manifest stylistic defects. Deploying his detailed knowledge of international filmmak-
ing in the teens, he can present histograms and tables, of the kind he is justly famous for:
average shot length, shot scales and cutting rates prove that German films are ‘slow,’ by
comparison with American, French, Italian and Danish productions of the time. Salt has
rubbed in the ‘sins’ of German films by itemizing the general lack of scene dissection and
continuity editing, the tableau-like framings and frontal acting, paired with overcomplicat-
ed or poorly constructed plots, much of which seems to reconstruct a 19th century theatrical
narrative space, all but devoid of spectacle, pace and narrative verve.

In contrast, Sabine Hake has tried to look at German production of the teens with
the criteria of self-referentiality and the self-conscious use of the medium in mind. In quite
a large number of films she detects narrative devices that clearly refer to the medium itself,
putting in play the audience, as in the satire of a hypocritical film-reformer wie sich der
kintopp racht (‘The Revenge of the Cinematograph’); by featuring protagonists who are
engaged in filmmaking (der stellungslose photograph , a photographer in search of a
job, with its rare scenes of a portrait photographer’s studio); or starring Asta Nielsen in die
Filmprim adon n A , an amusing film-within-a-film parody of the business.

A related criterion - that of ‘expressivity’ - can be found in Kristin Thompson’s
essay. The detailed investigation of one film’s formal strategies and principles of narrative
construction, derived not from theatrical staging or the story on which die landstrasse is
based, demonstrates a will to style and filmic expression that Thompson has noticed in very
diverse films from a number of countries, and that has led her, more broadly, to argue for
something like a filmic avantgarde already for the teens, in contrast to the more common as-
sumption of the birth of the film avantgarde with the cabinet of dr caligari. Leonardo
Quaresima, too, in his essay on homunculus, strongly argues for this film to be seen as ex-
perimental, and as such, a ‘missing link’ between the fantastic films of the early teens, like
the student of Prague, and the more famously stylized fantasy films from the twenties.

Similar with respect to their formal rigor, both Salt and Thompson aim at distill-
ing filmic specificity, in order to derive from this the notion of a cinematic style which might
be posited as a period norm, useful not only in distinguishing the cinema from the theatre.

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Dorrit Weixler in das rosa pantoffelchen (Franz Hofer, 1913)

but also for calibrating ‘good practice’ and comparative, international criteria, against
which some films, in Salt’s case die liebe der maria bonde, and in Thompson’s Paul von
Worringen’s die Landstrasse can be seen as (interesting) exceptions.

Thompson conies to some intriguing conclusions, notably that the treatment of
space deserves special attention. This argument has been central to a number of readings of
European films, for instance, the Scandinavian films from the teens, including the famous
student of Prague, whose enigmatic director Stellan Rye is featured in a separate essay
by Caspar Tyberg. 58 Michael Wedel, in his essay on Franz Hofer’s heidenroslein has ex-
tended this approach to cinematic space, in order to extrapolate from it a new theory of
genre, especially as it applies to melodrama, and the distinct regimes of knowledge this
genre deploys. In melodramas, the pressure of other stylistic paradigms, as well as media
intertexts is very notable, and Jurgen Kasten, looking for Heinrich Lautensack’s signature
on zweimal gelebt, gives a reading of the relation between stage and screen across
screen writing, at a point where it seems to establish itself in Germany as an independent
practice. Since Michael Wedel situates this same film’s spatial configurations in the context
of the particularly enigmatic ‘commercial’ strategy of its director Max Mack, zweimal
gelebt is indeed the film around which something like a debate develops, especially in-
triguing in view of the fact that zweimal gelebt is also singled out by Salt as particularly
inept, 59 just as according to his criteria, there is little to commend the films of Franz Hofer,
in turn the objects of glowing and very detailed analyses by Yuri Tsivian and Elena Dagrada.

Might it be possible, by way of concluding this introduction, to spell out a little
what seems involved in this debate, if necessary by situating the arguments so far summa-
rized within a slightly different conceptual frame? For instance, I would want to suggest that
film production in the teens can best be defined in two directions simultaneously and so to
speak, two-dimensionally: one dimension pertains to the narrative and stylistic implications
of the new feature-length format, while the second dimension concerns the spectator-screen
relationship, considered in its constitutive, philosophical dimension (as discussed by so-
called ‘apparatus theory’), 60 but also in its context-dependent history (as discussed, for in-

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stance, by Charles Musser’s history of ‘screen-practice’). 61 The two dimensions are inter-
connected but nonetheless independent variables, which need to be examined separately,
and which do indeed require a very careful scrutiny of the films themselves. The essays by
Heide Schltipmann and Michael Wedel, by Jurgen Kasten, Ivo Blom and Elena Dagrada can
- and should - be read as returning with fresh eyes to a number of films and filmmakers,
arguing implicitly that our notion of norm and deviation, but also any argument about filmic
specificity must be carefully grounded in historical intertexts, so that neither the theatre (in
Schlupmann’s reconsideration of Asta Nielsen’s use of profilmic, scenic, filmic and intra-
diegetic spaces) nor painting (in Ivo Biom’s essay on the pictorial and touristic representa-
tional conventions), neither proscenium space (Jurgen Kasten) nor illusionist space
(Michael Wedel) should have an a-priori value assigned to it, regarding its filmic specificity
or lack of it. Elena Dagrada’s detailed and sensitive look at Hofer’s films, with the parame-
ters of point of view and space in mind, shows how much such a close reading can yield in
new information, but also how a knowledge of historical intertexts and a cognitive approach
to narration can bring to life a filmmaker whose work was hitherto all but absent from the
pantheon of cinema. 62 But it is above all Yuri Tsivian’s comparative study of spatial features,
compositional details and character blocking in films by Yevgenii Bauer and Franz Hofer
that openly challenges the one-dimensional picture we have of the teens as a period tyran-
nized and stultified by the theatre, for he demonstrates how at the very heart of theatricality
and pictorialism a genuinely original conception of cinematic space and narrative form can
emerge.

Putting in Place: Screen Space, Audiences and Self-Reference

Two films from the early teens raise these issues in exemplary form, if only because their
relative directorial anonymity would indicate that one is dealing here with formal features
so much taken for granted as to constitute the invisible presence of a ‘norm.’ Since both
films were also very popular at the time, while today the reasons for this popularity almost
wholly elude us, they pose the sort of challenge mentioned earlier: what might film history
gain from examining the films themselves? Picked more or less at random, the films are two
Messier productions, richard wagner (Carl Froetich/Wiiliam Wauer, 1913) and des pfar-
rers tochterlein (Adolf Gartner, 1912). In the case of richard wagner, the focus is on
film length and what it can tell us about a film’s social function and intended audience,
while with des pfarrers tochterlein the screen -spectator relationship is the point at is-
sue, defining its generic identity as melodrama, but also its sociological value as interpreta-
ble document.

richard wagner, at a length of 70 minutes, seems at first sight one of the more
strangely ‘inept’ films when judged by our contemporary taste or Barry Salt’s evolutionary
scale. Slow, choppy, devoid of story-telling skills, its succession of tableux convey the over-
whelming impression of stasis: more an illustrated picture book than a dramatic narrative
(see illustr., p. 000). Yet given that length correlates directly to the conditions of reception

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(and the structural changes the early film programme underwent) and thus defines generic
identity as well as marketing strategy (the ‘Monopolfilm’), the film might become interest-
ing once we regard it as the solution to a problem we may no longer feel as such, namely of
how to tell a longer story within determinate conditions of reception, still dominated by the
numbers programme. As to its generic identity, one would expect a film about Richard
Wagner to belong to the Autorenfilm , aiming at the better-paying middle-class audience,
looking for cultural respectability. Yet judging from the publicity material, Richard Wagner
appears to have been treated as something of a folk hero, whose fictionalized life belonged
less to the (later) genre of the musician’s bio-pic than to the oral narratives of youthful
rebels and national saviours, like William Tell or Andreas Hofer, about whom Messter had
already made a film in 1909. Once one regards richard wagner under the double aspect of
hybrid genre (bridging - like its hero - the cultural divides of ‘high’ art and Tow’ entertain-
ment), and ‘transitional’ form (in the move to the long feature film), the apparent solecisms
and stylistic unevenness may turn out to have their own logic. In other words, the argument
would be that the ‘medium’ the film intertextualizes is not Wagner’s music or his operas, but
a popular literary or semi-literary genre, maybe even fairy tale and myth (one notes, from
the advertising, that it played as one of the big Christmas pictures of 1913). richard wag-
ner was a film made for a mass (family) audience, while at the same time possessing an
identity as an Autorenfilm, involving a ‘name’ personality from the arts, which goes to show
that the concept of the Autorenfilm was a marketing concept before it was a quality concept,
or rather, the quality concept is also a marketing concept. 63 What, however, becomes evident
only when viewing the film itself is that its narrative structure is heavily marked by the
numbers principle, and thus represents a distinct stage within the narrative transformations
occasioned by the change in film length. Bearing the variety programme in mind, and re-
calling the distinctions between the various ‘genres’ of the short film, one can in richard
wagner, without too much difficulty, recognize a range of spectacle attractions and genres
from the pre-1910 international cinema: there is the (British) restaged documentary [in the
1 848 revolution scene], the (Danish) detective serial [as Wagner hides in the doorway to
escape arrest], the (French) film d’art [the encounter Wagner and List], the (Biograph or
Pathe) historical reconstruction [the tableau including Friedrich Nietzsche, where in the
USA it would be Lincoln, or Dreyfus in France], and there is even a Melies-type trick film
scene, when Wagner is shown telling the story of Siegfried and the helmet that makes him
invisible. As especially this last episode shows, the film takes great care over its narrational
procedures, putting in place several narrators, both external and internal, introduced by
script and intertitles, themselves referring to different narrational levels, as in the narrative
within a narrative, or the insert shot of the warrant for Wagner’s arrest.

In this respect, richard wagner seems more ‘sophisticated’ than many other
films from 1913, while at the same time more ‘primitive,’ although especially among the
Autorenfilm one finds further examples of films where the numbers principle has survived
inside the continuous feature film. The phenomenon was appreciated or remarked upon as

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such by the reviews, as in the case Atlantis (by August Blom, 1913, after the novel by
Gerhart Hauptmann) and wo ist coletti? (by Max Mack, 1913, and discussed by several
contributors). 64 The examples illustrate less the old argument about the difficult transition
from short to feature length film (the problems of how to generate a longer narrative), and
rather indicate how beholden the German cinema still was to the variety theatre as its struc-
tural principle, not as a performance mode or entertainment site, but as the narrative space
by which spectators and films communiciated. In other words, key films from 1913, in order
to reach a mass audience, practically reinvented for the long Monopolfilm a narrative which
simulated the short film numbers programme. That this is what the audience wanted and
expected is clear from many a contemporary account. As we saw, only intellectuals thought
the numbers programme incoherent, and the paradox of ‘primitive* and ‘sophisticated’ film
form in richard wagner directs attention to the fact that the film proposes to the spectator
a narrative space which is no longer ours, just as its mode of address to the audience puts the
modem audience in a relation to the screen we would no longer label ‘cinematic.’ As with so
many other films discussed in this volume - by Asta Nielsen/Urban Gad, Max Mack and
Franz Hofer, or Paul von Worringen, Joseph Delmont and William Wauer the Archime-
dean point around which film form in the teens in Germany seems to turn are the different
levels that link audience-space to screen space and structure their registers of reference, be
they theatrical, illusionist, performative, documentary, fictional. The relation screen space,
audience and self-reference, which are addressed by almost all the contributors, points to
the possible logic that underlies the changes of film length, of distribution and exhibition
practices, as well as the cinema’s relation to other arts. What in the past has sometimes been
thematized, often rather polemically and antagonistically, under the heading of the pre-
sumed theatricality of early film, or conversely, the cinema’s efforts to break free from
theatre to find its own identity, turns out to be part not of a modernist quest for medium-
specificity, but belongs to a more fundamental history of modernity in the sphere of repre-
sentation and public spaces, where the cinema plays its role in the shifting and contradictory
development which in urban environments at once fragmented and collectivized the masses
into spectators and audiences.

The fact that in early cinema the films imagined their audience to be physically
present, while in the later, narrative full-length feature film it was precisely the imaginary
viewpoint of the spectator, his or her virtual presence in the representation that became the
norm, indicates that what is contrasted is not theatre and cinema, but one kind of cinema
with another kind of cinema. This affects quite crucially the way a film can be interpreted,
and thus points to a possible interface between reception history, genre study and the formal
analysis of individual films. While a reception and genre-directed approach to early German
films tends to establish a socio-cultural or socio-pathological profile of Wilhelmine class,
caste and status society, perhaps by pointing out the many nannies and officer’s sons, or all
the middle-aged lovers courting tomboys that could be their daughters, such a one-to-one
correlation now seem to ine to miss the crucial dimension. How can one feel confident about

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interpreting the prevalence of authority figures like the military and the clergy within a
political or ideological argument after having given some thought to the interplay of specta-
tor space and screen space in some of these films? My second film example is a case in
point, des pfarrers tochterlein (‘The Pastor’s Daughter’), an all but forgotten Henny
Porten film which in its day was internationally popular, 65 emerges as important precisely to
the degree that, in contrast to richard wagner, it requires and to some extent assumes an
imaginary spectator, both cognitively (insofar as narrative comprehension depends on the
spectator appreciating an uneven distribution of knowledge among the characters) and per-
ceptually (insofar as the spectator is privileged in sharing the heroine’s optical point of view
in a crucial scene).

More precisely, des pfarrers tochterlein combines both models of specta-
tor-screen relationship in early cinema, that of an audience imagined as physically present,
and that of an audience both ‘present’ and ‘absent.’ In fact, it makes the conflicts between
two modes the very heart of the drama, readable today - in the multiplications of diegetic
and non-diegetic audiences, and the discrepancy between optical and ‘moral’ point of view
- as the mise-en-abyme of the historical audience’s dilemma. One can speak of a veritable
object lesson in teaching a new form of perception and reception, of understanding narrative
logic and character motivation psychologically (the hallmark of film melodrama), designed
to force the spectator to put him/herself into the place of the protagonist, and no longer
understand the protagonist as the (re presenter of feelings and actions.

Such a reading would suggest almost the opposite of a traditional sociological
interpretation in the manner of Kracauer: a major is needed (in, for instance, another forgot-
ten, but ‘normatively’ useful film, die kinder des majors [‘The Children of the Major’l)
not because he reflects the militarism of Wilhelmine society, but in order to motivate effi-
ciently at the level of story-world a most subtle narrational structure about who knows what,
when and about whom, allowing the film to introduce the convention of the duel, and there-
by obliging the spectator to experience the situation of the brother seeking satisfaction on
behalf of his jilted sister as irresolvable and ‘tragically’ inevitable. 66 Similarly, the pastor
needs to be a pastor in des pfarrer’s tochterlein so that the complex architecture of
gazes which culminates and climaxes the film - the daughter witnesses how her father mar-
ries the man she loves to the woman he left her for - can actually be physically motivated,
creating an explosive dramatic space (See Figs. 1-4, below). In addition, only the ‘local’ or
‘cultural’ knowledge of the spectator that this concerns a protestant church, and within the
church, the physical location of the altar, gives the film its full (melo-)dramatic pathos, since
it stages the conflict as the drama of spaces and gazes. What is significant is the pastor’s
physical position, seeing his daughter appear in the organ loft at the other end of the altar
while the bride and bridegroom, kneeling in front of the altar, are oblivious to the drama
unfolding between father and daughter, over their heads and behind their backs. In this film,
then, it is the pastor who motivates the church setting, which motivates the space, which in
turn allows these complex interchange of gazes and uneven distribution of knowledge to be

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Thomas Elsaesser

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physically embodied. Across the pastor as bearer of multiple significations, a space of sus-
pense and drama is created which no other profession could have conveyed as economical-
ly. 67

These cursory examples of a reading, informed so evidently by present historical
and theoretical preoccupations, once more return one to the question of ‘normalization,’ for
they open up the difficulty of assuming that a historical period not only has a norm, but
‘knows itself 7 (i.e. is self-reflexive, or self-expressive) through this norm by deviating from
it. Just as likely, and here I come to the fourth meaning of the title ‘A Second Life,’ the
mirroring, the self-referentiality, the mises-en-abyme, and the different types of expressivi-
ty and stylization - but also the shadow of hindsight falling on a pre-history - only help to
confirm that in the history of the cinema, as in all history, the phenomena analyzed neither
‘know themselves’ in the terms we know them, nor are they ultimately sufficient on to
themselves, as the idea of ‘normalization’ misleadingly and ideologically suggests. We
therefore, inevitably, have to ‘normalize’ our own demand for normalization, which is to
say, relativize any presumption we might have to ‘know’ how Wilhelmine society has ‘lived’
its cinema and represented it to itself; on the contrary, the films will forever demand from
those who rediscover them ‘a second life.’

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Section I

Audiences and
the Cinema Industry

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The Kaiser’s Cinema:

An Archeology of Attitudes and Audiences

Martin Loiperdinger

Lost cultures are typical subjects for archeology, especially when they dispensed with any
recognised form of writing or when only puzzling ruins remain to be deciphered. The cine-
ma of the Wilhelmine period is such a culture. Very little is known about the beginnings of
film in Germany before World War I, but this is certain: it has become an exotic phenome-
non, which cannot be understood in light of the modem concept of cinema.

Just insignificant relics survive from the Wilhelmine period: a small fraction of
the films shown then as well as a few of the buildings. Besides the remains of films and
theatres, there are only indirect sources of information: contemporary accounts, police re-
ports, photographs and architects’ drawings, programme advertisements in yellowed maga-
zines. Few systematic investigations of these sources have so far been undertaken. Even
specialists have decidedly hazy notions of film performances, of the audiences, and of the
meaning that films had for them in those days.

Two general assumptions about early German cinema in particular require more
thorough re-examination: first, that it was a ‘working class cinema’ and second, that the
cinema went through its ‘rascal years’ (‘Flegeljahre’) during the Wilhelmine period before
becoming mature in the Weimar years. Both notions are retrospective constructs, having
been developed later, and from a high culture view of film art - with a stake in seeing early
cinema as a primitive transition phase towards a higher destiny. I am concerned to show that
such assumptions can be criticized or re-investigated by simply looking once more at the
evidence and source material that has survived from the period itself.

‘Cinema’ in the following refers neither to the architectural features of the fa-
cades or the interiors of fixed exhibition sites, nor to a canon of filmic masterpieces defined
by period, style or place of production. The films and their performances before World War
I had little in common with what has been shown in cinemas later. It took the new medium
at least twenty years to develop the classic standard programme, and the evening-length
feature film with supporting programme shown in a purpose-built cinema only began to
dominate the industry towards the end of World War I. Before the War, the usual format was
the number programme, consisting of short films made up of different genres, and lasting
between one and two hours.

Given these facts, a serious look at early cinematography of necessity demands a
broader definition of cinema, seeing it in the context of a wide-ranging and expansive tech-
nical, social and cultural history . 1 One might call it a new ‘social space’ where watching

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films implied a social event and a communal experience, shaped by multiple faetors and
conditions, bounded by location, size and decor of the exhibition site at one extreme, and
the nature of the film programme presented at the other. In particular, the focus is on the
public, who come to the cinema of their own free will, paying for the pleasure of seeing the
programme. But the definition also includes the various businesses involved in the produc-
tion, distribution and performance and their specific economic interests. Finally, there are
the governmental controls imposed on the cinematographic fact - from building permits
and fire regulations to censorship of films and taxation of tickets - and the response to the
medium in the sphere of the press, public opinion and politics.

The ‘Rascal Years' and ‘Working-Class Cinema’

In his popular bestseller Immortal Film , Heinrich Fraenkel gave the chapter on the early
cinema the title The Rascal Years.’ 2 With this or similar metaphors, German film historians
have labelled the period before the full-length feature film ever since, suggesting that the
cinema first became mature and acceptable as an art when eminent playwrights and famous
stage actors consented to becoming involved. The term 'rascal years’ emphasises the sepa-
ration between art and entertainment, a divide initially policed by the 'intelligentsia of the
printed word’ who in Germany wielded much cultural power. The analogy with badly be
haved rebellious youths automatically calls for the domestication of early cinema, especial-
ly when with hindsight it became clear that the rascal had indeed turned into a respectable
adult, and the cinema had metamorphosed into a serious art form - precisely what the cine-
ma reform movement had been demanding when it first used this patronizing and pejorative
language around 1908/1909,

At the same time, calling it 'the rascal years’ lends a certain romanticism to
obscure beginnings that escape categorization. Siegfried Kracauer speaks of the ‘freedom
of the film from cultural ties and intellectual prejudices’ and writes: 'During the whole era
the film had the traits of a young street arab; it was an uneducated creature running wild
among the lower strata of society’ 3 - but he, too, seems to breathe a sigh of relief that those
days would not last.

No matter where they place the emphasis, for most commentators the early cin-
ema was rough and uncouth. Whether the metaphor inflected the audiences or the audiences
determined the metaphor, the cinematograph of the fairgrounds, touring cinemas and nick-
elodeons became associated with the working class. Media sociologists and film historians
alike can declare with conviction: ‘Before World War I the cinema was mostly frequented
by the working class.’ 4 ‘For the first fifteen years the German nickelodeons and cheap movie
houses were mainly sanctuaries for the illiterate, poor, and unemployed.’ 5 Even leaving
aside the insinuations, such categorical statements are imprecise: who is this ‘working
class’ whom Dieter Prokop describes elsewhere as ‘the urban lower class’? And did the
public for the first permanent cinemas really consist of members of socially stigmatised
classes?

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Blue Collar, White Collar, Casual: The Public

Let us first turn to the beginnings of film sociology in Germany, The cinema public of
Mannheim, a large industrial centre 80 km south of Frankfurt, was professionally analysed
in 191 2 by means of an extensive questionnaire which Emilie Altenloh had prepared for her
social science doctoral thesis. 6 The evaluation classified the answers according to social
class and gender: the conservative elite of the Reich, particularly its male academics, be-
holden to a notion of ‘Bildung’ (bourgeois education and high culture), did indeed stay
away from the cinematographic theatres. That much conventional film historiography can
take over from Altenloh. But beyond this unsurprising fact, the class nature of early cinema
becomes much more complex. Altenloh does not feel she can talk of ‘working class’: for
instance, adult working-class men, who in Mannheim were generally members of the Social
Democratic Party or organised in trade unions, were also seldom in the cinema. The Social
Democratic workers’ movement with its dense network of local leisure and education clubs
had developed its own political culture which extended beyond merely securing its mem-
bers’ interests against the state and big business. Party and union members were bound into
an oppositional subculture of the workers’ movement ‘from cradle to grave,’ which means
that the cultural aspirations of social democracy were often similar to the ideals of the edu
cated classes: ‘raising’ the worker's self-esteem through his participation in middle-class
cultural capital was one of the declared goals of the social democratic education policy.
Thus, as far as the cinematograph was concerned, the workers’ movement broadly agreed
with the conservative cinema reform movement, rejecting the cinema as an ‘epidemic’ and
a ‘scourge.’ 7 Altenloh ’s investigation revealed that the organised skilled working class hard-
ly took advantage of the leisure opportunities represented by Wilhelmine cinema. Thus, it
could not have been the ‘urban working classes’ that freqented the ever more numerous
cinemas.

According to Altenloh, children, adolescents of either sex, and women made up
a large percentage of the cinema-going public, often the family members of these hard-
working skilled male providers mentioned above. Working-class women considered the
cinematograph ‘a very important form of entertainment.” 5 The significant number of chil-
dren and adolescents among the public is also confirmed by the complaints of the cinema
reformers that the ‘provocative films’ were endangering the morals of the youth. They
called for (and sometimes managed to implement) restrictions, banning children from the
cinemas. The highest level of attendance was noted by Altenloh for male adolescents who
held menial jobs in the service industries - delivery boys, or low-rank office clerks, who
mostly came from families of day labourers.

It does not necessarily follow, however, that the cinema-going public was prima-
rily composed of members of the lower classes. Altenloh found that a very similar pattern
emerged between ‘women from the upper classes’ and ‘the young [female] shop assistants,
except that the [latter] go to the cinema more often.’ In the smaller towns, it was the cinema
that relieved the boredom of the better-off women and showed them ‘what everyone was

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dressing in Paris, the hats they wore.’ In the big cities, the women particularly enjoyed going
to the cinema in the afternoon after finishing the shopping, to recover from all the bustle in
the department stores and the noise of the streets, 9

The conclusions Altenloh reached thus lead to a hypothesis that contradicts con-
ventional wisdom: the most significant feature of the cinema going public before World
War I was not its proletarian origins (however significant a proportion this represented) but
its class and gender diversity. The findings were the more telling, since they came from a
decidedly industrial centre with a large working population. Contemporary accounts in the
trade press tend to characterise the public as white collar, or casual and mixed, for whom the
cinemas functioned as a welcome opportunity to break a routine schedule and take advan-
tage of the continuous performances, with their mix of short films of different types and
genres. Altenloh noted that one major reason for the increase in cinema attendance even
among the educated classes was the fact of ‘not being tied to a schedule’ as in the theatre.

To comprehend the social and political importance of the cinema in the Wil-
helmine period, one must follow up every clue as to the composition of the public and to the
presentation of the event itself. In this context, the social topography of the film theatre can
be very informative: the hypothesis of the proletarian public was founded on the fact that
most cinemas were established in the working class areas of cities and that industrial cities
had a greater density of cinemas relative to inhabitants, Prokop, for example, supports this
view by comparing Essen and Dusseldorf: ‘The “working-class town” Essen had 21 cine-
mas for 295 000 inhabitants in 1910; the “civil servant town” Diisseldorf had only 10 cine-
mas for 359 000 inhabitants in 1 910.’ 10 This has little meaning until the size of the cinemas
and their precise locations are known. Recent studies of local cinema history indicate that
theatres were first built in busy thoroughfares in the city centre - often near department
stores and train stations or dance palaces and music halls. Such a location would suggest
that they catered to a casual public rather than to a proletarian one living locally. In the case
of Cologne, Bruno Fischli concluded that ‘it is time to do away with the popular but simplis-
tic viewpoint that the early period of the cinema was a time of the “proletarian cinema” — the
Cologne cinema history, for one, disproves this standard theory.’ 11

In the darkness of the movie theatre, certain social and menial modernisation
processes may well have got underway that would otherwise not have taken place on such a
mass scale in the hierarchical society of the Empire. The cinemas were public ‘grey areas’
that brought together anonymous people from disparate sections of the population, united
by their common choice of entertainment. It is precisely this social and cultural heterogene-
ity that turned the big-city casual audience into the modem masses and the cinematograph
into a modem mass medium - despite the status limitations of the domineering Wilhelmine
aristocracy and the siege mentality of class consciousness among working class move-
ments.

Politically speaking, the ‘modernity’ of the Wilhelmine cinema in this double
turn against the corporate state and class consciousness is ambivalent: On the one hand,

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Heide Schliipmann 11 puts forward convincing arguments for claiming that there was a ‘se-
cret conspiracy’ between cinematography and women’s emancipation in Wilhelmine socie-
ty, basing herself on surviving German fiction films from 1909 to 1915. From another per-
spective and basing oneself on other source material, notably actualities and newsreels, one
could argue the case that Wilhelmine cinema as a modem mass medium contributed to
‘emancipating’ Germans of both sexes outside the middle-class into becoming citizens: cit-
izens who acknowledged a fatherland and who could demonstrate that they had the requisite
patriotism, when the fatherland in the person of the Kaiser called upon them to take up arms
at the beginning of August 1914.

S.M. DER KAISER WILHELM II AUF DER VULKANWERFT IN STETTIN AM 4. MAI 1897
The Navy League Propaganda Effort

Recent discussions of the cinema reform movement and the public debates it generated in
the teens and earlier over ‘smutty films’ and threat to public morals tend to overlook a
significant aspect of early German cinema and the films on show: the cinematograph’s tar-
geted use, already since the turn of the century, as a vehicle for nationalist sentiment and
militarist propaganda. The Navy League, the Colonial League and other military or para-
military organisations (known as ‘Vaterlandische Verbandey ‘associations of patriots’) had
seized on the new medium as a means of advertising their aims, but also as an important
source of revenue. Ahead in the game of systematic film propaganda was the Deutscher
Flottenverein ('German Navy League’), a tightly organized network at the national, region-
al and local level throughout the Reich, drumming up public support for arming the navy.
The Navy League used traditional advertising such as chocolate box illustrations and ciga-
rette collectors’ cards featuring navy subjects. Quick to exploit the new medium of moving

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images, it entered into film exhibition early, and on an impressively vast scale.

Navy League film propaganda began in Kattowitz (today’s Katowice), the center
of the Upper Silesian mining area, a region away from the coast. According to a detailed
report in the League’s organ Die FlotteP only a few, mostly from the educated middle-
class, attended the League’s lecture meetings. Thus, in August 1900, the Kattowitz branch
organized a fairground exhibition. The main attraction was a real German battleship which
could be entered and viewed by thousands who had never before seen such a big ship. A few
months later the Kattowitz activists tried to repeat this enormous naval propaganda success.
Because real battleships were not to hand, Gustav Williger, General Manager of the ‘Kat-
towitzer AG,’ organized a series of film shows supported by the Deutsche Mutoskop- und
Biograph-Gesellschaft. The public response to these Biograph screenings exceeded all ex-
pectations: from March 3rd to 12th, 1901, audiences of some 24,000 attended 19 Bio graph
performances and were enthusiastic about the manoeuvres of the German navy seen on the
screen. About 40 Tiving pictures’ were shown, introduced by short lectures, 14 The effect of
the moving sea, the gunpowder smoke and funnel smoke apparently stirred powerful patri-
otic feelings. The League’s activists distributed copies of Navy songs among enthusiastic
audiences who all joined in. This level of audience participation owed much, indeed, to the
‘living pictures’ of the Biograph, as ordinary people in the mining area of Kattowitz had
never seen big ships moving or firing their guns on the open sea. The Biograph ‘worked’:
not only in the technical sense of replicating views of the navy, but also in the political
sense, making the screenings mass manifestations of popular support for the navy reanning
program.

The Biograph film-shows in this industrial centre of Upper Silesia became the
starting point of large-scale navy film propaganda activities, organized by local branches of
the Navy League in all parts of Germany. Until 1907, the League’s journal Die Flotte pub-
lished facts and figures on ‘Kinematograph’ screenings, detailing the numbers of spectators
at the shows as well as the number of new members recruited. The impact of the cinemato-
graph was seen as a simple stimulus-response relation. Obviously, local branches reported
on viewers who shortly after having attended the film shows applied for membership. Re-
ported attendance figures of around one million viewers each year from 1903 to 1 906 might
have been exaggerated, but it is a fact that the Navy League’s Biograph and Cinematograph
travelling exhibitions were very popular. The trade press, for instance, complained about

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heavy loss of revenue among commercial exhibitors who suffered from the unwelcome
competition of the Navy League’s propaganda film-shows, 15

According to the League’s annual report of 1903, the cinematograph was credit-
ed with turning the Navy League into a ‘ Volksverein’ (an organization with popular appeal).
Its impact was ascribed to the pictorial evidence which attracted people who never would
have come to a conventional lecture meeting. Having attended the naval film screenings,
Navy League members and non-members alike went home with the feeling that the navy
was an important element of German life. 16 These statements indicate a fairly modem way
of thinking politically, by making use of a propaganda technique that is based on the typical
mass media communication strategies of our century still very much in use today in cinema
and television: arguments unfolding pro and contra a given object or case are replaced by
just showing the object or case. Then and now, it is visual (self-)evidence that stops the
argument.

Film Star Kaiser Wilhelm II

Long before Asta Nielsen stepped before the camera in June 1910 to play her first role in
afgrunden, an imposing array of film stars of another sort were already appearing on the
screen of German cinemas. These actors can be called stars because they were mentioned by
name in the advertisements of the production companies and even in the titles of the films
themselves. If in feature films, stars were first introduced towards the end of 1910 via the
novel marketing device of the monopoly film 17 ; in the actuality and newsreel genre, it had
always been customary to name the persons shown, who resemble stars in their magnetic
attraction for the public. Already known and famous, they need no special build-up through
exclusivity, since they already possess appeal and visibility by virtue of their political and
social standing in the imperial hierarchy. These first film stars of the German cinema were
the members of the royal family - especially Emperor Wilhelm II, the Empress, and Crown
Prince Wilhelm, Crown Princess Cecilie and their children. As far as costumes, extras and
array of famous names were concerned, no feature film from before World War I achieved
the extravagance that the Hohenzollem Dynasty could display at their public gatherings and
social rituals. The cult of the monarchy in the German Reich supplied the actuality genre
with a wide range of unbeatable subjects that were also cheap to produce. As the presenta-
tion and display of imperial power were arranged by the court’s masters of ceremony or
heads of protocol and financed by the state, film producers were spared all manner of ex-
penses, from costumes and props to fees for the aristocratic star cast.

The film industry had every reason to be grateful. It devoted a massive tome of
film history to Wilhelm II on the occasion of the ruler’s 25 -year jubilee. In fact, Der Deut-
sche Kaiser im Film' ? was produced as an international effort, with extensive participation
by foreign film companies with subsidiaries in Germany, In addition to the national compa-
nies Duskes and Projektions-AG Union, the French market leaders Pathe Freres, Gaumont
and Eclipse were involved, as were Vitascope, Edison, the German Mutoscope and Bio-

47 The Kaisers Cinema

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graph Society and the Italian firm Ambrosio. The Emperor was not only apostrophised as
‘one of the most active friends and supporters of film art,’ he was revered as ‘the most
interesting of all personalities at whom the lens of a cinematograph has ever been aimed.’ 19
These expressions of devotion and respect should not be seen as mere grovelling before the
monarch. From the beginning of the cinematograph recording life in the German Reich,
reporting on the court was a mainstay of the actuality genre, actively supported by Kaiser
Wilhelm II, who became the most frequent sight in actualities originating from Germany.
With over 100 film titles listed in the trade press advertisements, 20 Wilhelm II tow'ered above
other actors from all genres. The monarch who was nicknamed the ‘Reisekaiser’ (‘travel
emperor’) was such a suitable subject not only because of the appeal and prominence of his
appearances, As the embodiment of the political system, he was physically very present in
public life and on state occasions where he became the object of a camera. Judging by the
titles of the films in which the Emperor is named and which indicate the events and activi-
ties that were filmed, it is fair to say that Wilhelm II was no stranger to the ‘photo-opportu-
nity’ and the ‘media event.’ His name promised the movie-going public a colourful variety
of traditional and modem scenes from the imperial role repertory. The majority were occa-
sions of public representation which later (under the motto ‘red carpet treatment’ or ‘Hats
off to Authority’) 21 became the staple topics of the newsreel: State visits abroad, the numer-
ous domestic walkabouts called ‘Emperor Days,’ foundation stone ceremonies and the con-
secration of memorials all portrayed the Emperor as statesman. Parades and manoeuvres
accentuated his role as supreme military commander. Finally, the multitude of visits to ship-
yards and the launchings of warships made the arming of the fleet appear his personal con-
cern. Wilhelm II also showed himself a friend of popular modem luxury sports, by opening
the sailing regatta in Kiel every year and attending automobile races. He displayed a feudal
lifestyle during the St. Hubert’s Day hunt, pheasant shoots and royal hunting parties. Even
on semi-private trips abroad, he showed himself accommodating to cinematographers.

Human interest as ‘holiday-makers of the nation’ was provided by the Hohen-
zollem princes as well. For example, already in 1902 three production companies were
competing to bring to the public multi-shot films about Prince Heinrich’s trip to America:
the (domestic) Internationale Kinematographen-Gesellschaft from Berlin, the Edison Com-
pany, and Lubin from New York. Responsible for the genre ‘Home sweet home’ was the
family of Crown Prince Wilhelm, Crown Princess Cecilie and their small children, where
the Hohenzollem Dynasty was revealing its common touch. The 1913 de luxe volume Kron-
prinzens im Film sets the tone for how the cinema public was meant to respond: ‘Yes! Our
Crow-n Prince is like a member of our own clan: he lives with us, belongs to us, and is
already half King and half still one of us! And when his dear loving wife is shown at his side
and adorable children are playing at his feet, it seems as if in our hearts we are all on first
name terms! ’ 22 In contrast to the supposedly salacious ‘smutfilms’ denounced by the cinema
reformers, this offered the public a completely harmless, even politically desirable keyhole
perspective. The Cologne Germania-Film-Companie advertised its 14- part filmstrip, die

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Der Kinematograph, no. 96, 28 October 1908

KINDER UNSERES KRONPRINZEN-PAARES BEIM SPIEL IM NEUEN GARTEN ZU POTSDAM, as a

first-class repertoire piece. The 205 meters of film at 1 .50 marks per meter were offered for
sale to cinema owners with the promise: ‘These images afford a glimpse into the informal
domestic idyll of our Crown Prince’s family.’ 23

Giving the impression of human intimacy with this form of ‘home movie’ of the
family life of the Hohenzollems is a typically modem media strategy. The repeated empha-
sis on informality contrasted sharply with the ‘Prussian’ staging of troop parades and mili-
tary manoeuvres. As hybrid ceremonial form, the Wilhelmine ‘Kaiser cult’ was a fairly
precise mirror of an autocratic system that oscillated between the Grand Prussian Monar-
chic ideal, and the middle class/industrial nation -state, 24 Consequently, the Hohenzollem
Dynasty presented itself on the screen as an amalgam of traditional and modem elements.
However, the rituals, meant to stabilise the ruling structure, appear especially ambivalent in
the performance context of the cinematograph: Emperor and Crown Prince become part of
a mixed programme of spectacle attractions, reflecting a colourful society, from which in
reality they are very distant. In performance and appeal, the court ceremonies of the Hohen-
zollems were no different from a troupe of circus acrobats doing their stunts, or slapstick
comedians, operetta singers, dancers, alternating with the crafty scoundrels, drunkards and

49 The Kaiser's Cinema

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naughty boys that thrilled, amused and enchanted the public. Maybe this meant that Kaiser
Wilhelm II came closer to the operetta stars than His Majesty would have wished, but by
playing his part in the cabinet of curiosities that was the numbers programme, his contribu
tion to the ‘nationalisation of the masses’ (as the process of German national identity forma-
tion has been called) 25 must be seen in a more nuanced way. In the dawning age of technical
reproducibility, the Kaiser cull on Film did not unambiguously reinforce the aura of Wilhelm
II as the incarnation of the political system, and may well explain why he faded from public
memory fairly quickly when a new generation of film stars came to prominence in the post-
war years, and the Prussian monarchy reshaped its image around a Frederick rather than a
Wilhelm who had lost the Great War.

Research Perspectives

The history of the Wilhelmine cinema before World War I offers an enormous variety of
materials for a cultural and social (media) history. The new medium film, together with
other, technologically based forms of communication provided part of the economic incen-
tive which, within a decade or two, gave rise to a prospering leisure industry. In a country
whose industry was expanding rapidly, such a leisure industry could develop the social
momentum which allowed the disparate masses of the industrial cities to bind into a new
sort of public. In the darkness of the urban shopfront cinemas and nickelodeons, this public
- every day and a thousand-fold - formed and re-formed itself, becoming real to themselves
in the common experience of the screen events.

This essay, then, implicitly indicates also a research perspective that could move
the traditional, work-and-text oriented German film history towards a more comprehensive
cultural history. Film production and cinema reception, generally referred to as ‘context,’
can no longer be regarded as peripheral factors, to be added on to a more or less immanent
interpretation of individual films. Rather, they must be considered constitutive conditions
and permanently present forces, shaping the developments as well as the constraints of
specific media practices. Such a perspective is broadly congruent with the concepts, meth-
ods and case studies of the ‘New Film History,’ which has already produced excellent work
in outlining the international field of force in which early cinema developed. 26 On the other
hand, with respect to Germany, the massive expansion of cinematographic activity just be-
fore World War 1 suggests investigating Wilhelmine cinema as part of the social and ‘every-
day’ history of the Reich. Analogous to the numerous local and regional studies of the polit-
ical culture at the end of the Weimar Republic, it might be time to devote more energy to
microanalytical studies of the Wilhelmine cinema, based on local sources. The long-term
aim would then be to combine the international perspectives of contemporary film historio-
graphy , archives and collections with locally focused cinema histoiy: only then can we hope
to decide to what extent this exotic lost culture of Wilhelmine cinema can be recovered as
part of Germany’s historical ‘modernity.’

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Oskar Messter, Film Pioneer: Early Cinema
between Science, Spectacle, and Commerce

Martin Koerber

Oskar Messter started at a time when three preoccupations central to the new medium of
cinematography - science, spectacle and commerce - were still inextricably caught up with
one another, and in the person of Messter they continually competed with each other, often
in a very antagonistic way.

From his childhood years, Messter seemed predestined for a career in film. His
father had been running his own successful company, Ed,[uard] Messter, Optical and Me-
chanical Institute, in Berlin’s Friedrichstrasse, since 1859. Engaged in the production and
retailing of optical instruments, spectacles and, in particular, microscopes and other medical
instruments, the firm was built up from very modest beginnings, but the optician had regular
and steady contact with the theatre and show business. Eduard Messter made optical instru-
ments for showmen, supplied magic lantern performances and was a pioneer of electric
theatre lighting.

Oskar Messter, whose autobiography opens with a chapter headed 'My Father -
My Model,’ was to emulate him a few years later on the cinematographic front with similar
ventures in the commercial sphere. He was forever travelling, collecting film footage of all
news items he could lay his hands on, stopping only to visit cinema owners and to try to sell
them his latest equipment and films. At countless conferences - as a representative of the
interests of film producers - he struggled with the problems of film policy and finance.

‘ Ventures in Completely Unknown Territory’

Messter’s involvement with diving photographs on a continuous strip’ started in 1896. At
the beginning of the year he was still an optician and a mechanic running his father’s busi-
ness. Twelve months later he had developed and built machines for recording and projecting
moving images and was managing a cinema where the films he had made could be shown.

The fact that the secret of the Cinematographe Lumiere was kept until 1897'
meant that Messter was unable to copy the form of image transport used in this apparatus
with a gripping transport mechanism, which was soon to prove unsuitable for projecting.
The mechanism of an English projector, brought to him to repair, was to lead him to another
film transport mechanism - a blade with a few deep indentations abruptly moved forwards
on a pin disc, creating the sturdy transport of the frame between the projection stages. Often
equipped with four indentations (others versions exist with seven, five or three), this mech-
anism became known as the ‘Maltese Cross 5 due to its resemblance to the medal with the

51 Oskar Messter, Film Pioneer

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Oskar Messter

same name. Messter had not ‘invented’ the Maltese Cross: it had long been a familiar
switching mechanism, to be found not only in Germany, but internationally, particularly in
sewing machines, Morse telegraphs and music boxes. In 1896 other designers were also
trying to solve the problem of the intermittent film transport with the aid of crosses and pin
discs. In April, the French designer Coutinsouza registered a patent for the Maltese Cross;
Robert Paul’s projectors with their seven-stotted disk had been on sale in London since
March and were selling well. Among the first buyers were Georges Melies and Charles
Pathe, later two of the greatest internationally famous film pioneers, who contributed to the
rapid spread of this construction principle. 2 In Berlin, independently of Messter, the me-
chanic Max Gliewe hit upon the Maltese Cross gear when confronted with the problem of
how to replace a faulty Isolatograph used in a projection hall Unter den Linden, soon to
become Messter ’s property. 2

Messter concluded a deal with Max Gliewe, according to which the gear mech-
anism built at the Gliewe & Kiigler workshop would be delivered exclusively to Messter. 4
As a result, Messter was soon in a position to complete orders without delays (a problem
faced by Paul’s projectors), since he now had the expertise of Gliewe & Kiigler at his dis-
posal whenever needed. The end of 1896 saw a period of close co-operation between
Messter and the mechanical workshop of Bauer & Betz, which Messter was soon to take
over entirely. Georg Betz and Oskar Messter carried out tests together and jointly registered
patents on their cameras and projectors, but were only granted protection of their registered

52 Marlin Koerber

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designs (‘Gebrauchsmusterschutz’). Their trade mark was MB, intertwined in an octagon.

The reason why the manufacture of cinematic apparati progressed so rapidiy
was the fact that Messter’s first projectors were much in demand with showmen - the only
purchasers at this initial stage. The First projector had been sold to a Russian Showman on
1 5 June 1 896 and the company records of Ed, Messter up until the end of 1 896 indicate sales
and orders of 64 Messter projectors. Other indications that business was booming are the
numbers of extra and spare parts sold. In film sales an entirely new branch of business was
opening up. 5

In commercial projection in Germany, Messter was preceded by the short appear-
ance of the Skladanowsky Brothers at the ‘ Wintergarten’ -vaudeville in November 1895, and
by travelling shows with the Lumiere apparatus in early 1896. While he was still testing his
first prototype projectors, not very far from his business in the Friedrichstrasse, in a back-
room of the Wilhelmshallen Restaurant at 21 , Unter den Linden, Berlin’s first projection hall
opened on 26 April 1896, The venture was not a financial success and when a new owner also
disappeared leaving huge debts, the landlord closed it down. Messter acquired the assets -
including the Isolatograph that Max Gliewe had been working on - and re-opened the
premises - renaming it the ‘Biorama’ by popular competition - on 21 September 1896.

But even under Messter’s directorship, the Cinema Unter den Linden did not
prove a success. The attraction of the ‘living photographs’ was not sufficient to draw a large
public on a regular basis to a programme consisting of a few short films which were over in
less than ten minutes. However, Messter’s presentations became a big hit when shown as
part of a complete variety programme. By the end of 1896, performances involving his
machines and films featured regularly on the programme of the Apollo Theatre in Berlin, a
highly regarded entertainment palace. Similar theatres in other cities, like the Hansa Theatre

Henny Porten

53 Oskar Messter, Film Pioneer

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in Hamburg, adopted Messter’s presentations in their programmes. Soon Messter’s opera-
tors or the inventor himself were travelling to these venues with their projectors and films.

In order to assemble a constant supply of films which were both original and
topical, Messter began filming in autumn 1896. Once again, he constructed the necessary
camera himself, building the projection mechanism, with a few alterations to the shutter and
the film gate, into a light-proof box. The first films made with this simple machine consisted
of footage shot outdoors: street scenes with parading soldiers, flowing traffic and railway
scenes, and generally reminiscent of the films made by Lumiere from the end of 1895 on-
wards. Only a few hundred metres from his office Oskar Messter found a subject that even
today no report on Berlin can be without - the Brandenburg Gate.

After only six stormy months, then, the firm Ed. Messter became Germany’s
first film factory. Located in premises which had previously housed the optical company
and the electric motor factory of Bauer & Betz which stood next to it, production was almost
completely geared towards the manufacture of projectors, cameras and other devices, as
well as to the shooting, developing and copying of films. One year later, at the beginning of
1 898, the Special Catalogue no. 32 on Projection and Recording Apparatus for Living Pho-
tography, Films, Graphophones, Shadow Apparatus, Spotlights etc. of the Ed. Messter
company appeared. As well as containing a basic treatise on ‘Living Photography,’ its more
than one hundred pages were dedicated to Messter’s products, and illustrations provided an
insight into the production process. This catalogue also contained 84 films made by
Messter, between 18 and 24 metres in length. Some of these appear to have imitated sub-
jects first shown in the Lumieres’ films. No. 59 even quotes two Lumiere films in one go -
the famous sortie d’ usine and l’ arroseur arrose, in which a garden hose plays tricks on
its user:

fabr[k-ausgang. The clock has struck twelve, and men and women stream out
of the factory gates. A careless gardener, who is watering the street, sprays the
passers-by, causing them to quicken their pace. Witty. 6

Along with films about cities, films on natural subjects such as waterfalls, floods and wild
animals (filmed, of course, in the Berlin Zoo), and a few ‘piquant’ shots (such as No. 6, im
atelier [‘In the Studio’], showing painter and model in a suggestive pose), military sub-
jects were another strong point of the programme. Parades, battleship launchings and other
such events marked the beginning of ‘visual reportage,’ which soon became one of the reg-
ular ingredients of the film programme in the music hall. Messter’s catalogue of cinemato-
graphic events documents the experiences and knowledge gained over an 1 8-month period
and shows that, in Germany too, early cinematography was evolving from an experimental
curiosity into an industry,

Messter undoubtedly felt at home in the patriotic, militaristic spirit of the age,
his enthusiasm for technological innovation and his gift of turning this into company profit
were completely in line with the public image of the Grunderzeit entrepreneur. He was

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similarly combining his business acumen and his patriotism, when - as soon as the experi-
mental phase was behind him - he began actively wooing the imperial court. Showing ‘liv-
ing photographs’ to His Majesty was ideal for winning royal patronage, in turn a favourable
advert for the newly established film industry. But Messter also saw this as a good opportu-
nity to acquire footage of the Kaiser, his court and family - a particularly hot item in his film
programmes. One way of getting closer to the Kaiser was through the latter’s enthusiasm for
the imperial fleet - an enthusiasm shared by large numbers of the public. Many of Messter ’s
next films therefore had a distinctly maritime flavour. On 4 May 1897, he filmed the Kaiser
at the Vulcan shipyard in Stettin, where he was attending the start of the steamer ‘Wilhelm
der Grosse.’ With s.m. der kaiser wilhelm II auf der vulkanwerft in stettin am 4.
mai 1 897 Messter achieved a ‘marvellously sharp, accurate picture which renders His Maj-
esty clearly visible.’ 7 Messter filmed hundreds of maritime subjects, partly out of scientific
interest and partly as a chronicler and hunter in search of interesting cinematographic imag-
es. In the years that followed, Oskar Messter made generous use of his reputation as the man
who filmed the Navy. He continued to film the Kaiser and the Empress, princes and prin-
cesses and to shoot footage of manoeuvres, regattas and ship launches, as well as on land,
when the Kaiser unveiled monuments, took parades, holiday excursions and suchlike. These
were a staple of his films on offer, and those featuring the Kaiser himself were always
presented as the high point of a Messter show.

The Brief Blossoming of the Sound Picture

As early as 1896, in Messter’s Biorama Unter den Linden, a phonograph was used to pro-
vide a musical accompaniment to the ‘living photography.’ This was no arbitrary back-

Messter’s studio at Bliicherstrasse 32

55 Oskar Messter, Film Pioneer

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ground music, but a series of pieces specially selected to accompany the images.

On 7 November 1 902, Leon Gaumont showed films in Paris with the projector linked up to
a gramophone. Oskar Messter was working on a similar invention, which he presented very
successfully under the name Biophon in the Apollo Theatre, Berlin, on 29 August 1903.
Both Messter and Gaumont were able to take out patents on their inventions and made an
agreement over their operation: Gaumont was to supply no sound pictures to Germany and
Messter agreed to do the same in France; the apparatus was sold by both producers as a
common concent under the name Gaumont-Messter Chronophon-Biophon. A joint compa-
ny, planned by Messter, which w-as to exercise a worldwide monopoly on sound pictures did
not come into being, but his ‘Tonbilder’ remained a huge commercial success, as long as
Messter could claim the technical superiority of his product over that of his German com-
petitors, Part of his Kosmograph company was involved in the management of Messter’s
own Biophon cinemas in Berlin and in several other German cities. By 1913 five hundred
Biophon projection machines had been sold to managers of other cinemas. Flourishing sales
of sound pictures, initially produced exclusively by Messter, were therefore guaranteed, and
these had a much higher market value than ‘silent’ images. 8

Initially, Biophon sound pictures were shown as a new attraction in the music
halls, in which Messter’s Kosmograph was to be seen throughout the country. However, the
arrival of the sound picture also contributed to the establishment of permanent cinemas,
which took off from about 1905 onwards. Sound pictures brought cabaret numbers and
famous comedians onto the scene, including Otto Re utter, Robert Steidl and Gustav Schon-
wald. But there were serious programmes too: one of Messter’s first Tonbilder features the
tenor Siegmund Lseban singing the prologue from the opera Bajazzo. Messter employed the
big names of the Berlin theatre and directors such as Franz Porten and Albert Kutzner, who
had some experience in opera.

For a few years, Messter concentrated almost exclusively on the production of
sound pictures, and by 1907 they took up an 83% share of his company’s entire turnover,
rising to 90% in 1908. 9 The reaction of other German film producers was to begin making
their own sound pictures and manufacturing apparatus. Alfred Duskes marketed a
Cinephon, Karl Geyer built the Ton Biograph for the German Mutoskop und Biograph,
Guido Seeber developed the Seeberophon and later used Messter’s Synchrophon ; as head of
the technical department at Deutsche Bioscop he devised ingenious trick shots on a Syn-
chroscop . l0 Germany soon boasted a dozen different sound processes, each in competition
with one another, and each achieving roughly similar results. 11

The fierce competition led to a drastic drop in the prices for sound pictures. Several
firms undercut Messter, using the play-back process for the recording of sound pictures in
order to substitute inexperienced (and cheaper) actors in the staged scenes for the stars of
opera and stage whose voices they used in the recordings. The price per metre gradually sank
to that of the ‘silent’ film rate of around 1 .00 mark, which even with good sales could not cover
the production costs, at least double those for ‘silent’ films. By 1908, the peak year of the

56 Martin Koerber

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Tonbilder, Messter’s net income sank by 54%, and in 1909 he had to declare a loss. 12 By then,
Messters Projektion had produced some 450 Tonbilder. But by the end of 1909, the tide had
turned: sound picture production had dropped from 40 to 3, while feature film production was
rising steadily: instead of 8 in 1908, 10 new feature films were on offer in 1 909. 13

A Home-grown Star Saves Messters Projektion

People will understand that I was rather reticent about making artistic films,
because the success of these would not be due solely to my technical accom-
plishments. (...) I had to accept the fact that my task as a film producer was to
engage capable artists for the script, for the direction and for the performance. It
only remained for me to decide which film should be shown, which cast should
be chosen, and what kind of set should be used. Then I had to provide the neces-
sary capital and keep an eye on the shooting. (...) Despite all my experience I
soon came to realise that, even when a film was finished, I could not predict with
any certainty that it would recoup the money invested in it. 14

In his memoirs Messter fails to mention that while still the undisputed boss of his compa-
nies in 1910, he had surrounded himself with a highly competent management team. From
1909 there was the brilliant sales representative, Maxim Galitzenstein, who managed to
reverse the drop in sales. 15 Galitzenstein had good contacts with the cinema owners and was
able to provide valuable feedback. From the Neue Photographische Gesellschaft, Messter
took over Leo Mandl, who soon managed to ‘reorganise a business that was on its last
legs. 516 Mandl was probably responsible for the restructuring of the Messter firms in 1913,
creating a group of companies, with the clear aim towards vertical integration and a division
of labour between the individual companies, both of which were rare moves in the German
film industry of the time. The third important partner was Viktor Altmann. That Messter,
Mandl, Galitzenstein and Altmann constituted a powerful team and represented a certain
epoch of the film business is suggested by the fact that as late as 1929 the four featured in a
set of cartoons captioned: ‘The pioneers of the German film industry.’ 17

In the early years of Messter’s career, the moving image had been an attraction
in itself. Later, the sensation of ‘singing and talking living photographs’ ensured a comfort-
able profit. But in 1911 the time had come to find a new means of securing loyal and long-
lasting public interest in the films made by Messters Projektion. Messter found it in the
actress Henny Porten. She had already appeared in a few earlier sound pictures (meissner
porzellan, 1906), but she came to prominence in 19 10. Over a period of two or three years
she was carefully turned into a star, and the ‘Porten film’ finally became a trade mark for
films that ‘sold themselves.’ In the early days, posters advertising Messter films did not even
mention her name. 18 In the autumn of 1911, however, the film tragodie eines streiks
(‘Tragedy of a Strike’) included a short prologue in which the actress greets the audience
like old friends. This film proved to be Messter’s most successful production of the season.

57 Oskar Messter, Film Pioneer

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The next step was to circulate photographs of Henny Porten, showing the star in
various poses from Messter films. The photographs were also presented in an attractively
framed ‘tableau 7 for cinema owners to display in their foyers. In May/June 1912, Messter
embarked upon an advertising campaign in the Erste Internationale Filmzeitung . Unusually
lavish, full page ads with photos, as well as pull-out supplements with portraits and
an autograph in which Henny Porten expressed her gratitude for all the attention she had
been shown, won her a place in everyone’s heart. It illustrates well the sophisticated, long
term strategy of the early Porten campaign: the Erste Internationale Filmzeitung was a trade
journal particularly influential in Berlin and especially with cinema owners. Messters
Projektion gambled on the snowball effect this would have and judged it more effective than
the rather blatant advertising directly to the public. In the spring of 1913, the name
Henny Porten also came up in the cinema sections of the Berlin daily newspapers. Messter
did not have to pay a penny for the privilege, since these columns were paid for by the
cinema owners.

Henny Porten became the most prominent prop of Messter’s commercial suc-
cess. The growing demand for his films even led to a drastic increase in prices. ‘The first
Porten films closed, in 1914, with an average price of 2.50 marks per metre, which rose to
3.25 marks in 1916, and later to 3.75, and in 19 17 to 7 marks per metre.’ 19 Thanks largely to
Henny Porten, Messter’s films became hits worldwide. For the German market, 20 prints -
including replacement prints - were produced before the World War I, ‘for Austria it was 10
prints, for Denmark, Sweden and Norway 5, for Holland and the Dutch East Indies 2, for
England and her colonies 15, for North America 30, South America 15, Italy 5, Spain and
Portugal 3, Russia 20, Japan 1-2, the Balkans 2, Bulgaria, Serbia and Greece 2, France and
Belgium 5 and for Switzerland 1 print.’ 20

The Porten profits were partly invested in order to found the Autor-Film, a pro-
duction company within the Messter group almost exclusively given over to the preparation
and exploitation of the Henny Porten series and the commissioning of the films from the
parent company.

The success of the charismatic star also allowed the firm to push through and
impose the so-called ‘Monopolfilm 7 distribution system. Before this date, the measure of a
film’s success was the number of prints sold. In selling prints of a film, the producer was,
however, handing over the control of future exploitation. Many film-buyers made their liv-
ing from the resale to second or third parties of prints they had bought, and which - after
their initial run - could be advertised on the market at knock-down prices. These ‘second-
hand films’ choked the market, cut down the period for which films could be shown and
affected the prices paid for new productions. The Monopolfilm promised a way out of this
dilemma by selling not prints, but the right of exhibition, limited by time and place, i.e. for
a fixed period and in a given region. For the film producers, the monopoly system had the
advantage of guaranteeing minimum returns, because the agreed exclusivity made it impos-
sible for the films to be passed on, exchanged or ‘shuttled’ back and forth between owners

58 Marlin Koerber

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without restriction. 21 In 19 14 Messter entered directly into the market, by establishing with-
in the Messter group the Hansa film distribution company, which made him increasingly
independent of regional distributors and made sure that profits from exploitation flowed
back directly into production. 22

Messter the Film Producer Goes to War

The outbreak of the World War I in August 1914 threw the German film industry into disar-
ray. In the film factories, preparations were under way for the autumn/winter season of
1914/15, when the very backbone of the business was dramatically transformed: actors,
directors and technical personnel were called up, many of the comedies already in produc-
tion were no longer what the public wanted or the censor permitted, the raw materials essen-
tial for production were rationed, and - a serious blow for the cinema owners - the French
film companies which had dominated the market were declared ‘enemy aliens’ and were
closed down.

Oskar Messter, now 48 years old, was a lieutenant in the reserves and had not
seen service since 1896. In September 1914, however, he joined up as a volunteer. With the
assistance of a contact in the Berlin Press Association, a certain major Schweitzer, he en-
tered the press unit of the Deputy General Staff in Berlin. This enabled him to see his com-
pany through the hard times of the beginning of the war and to open it up to new fields of
activity.

Messter’s First task was to prepare censorship regulations for photographic and
cinematographic war reporting. The military had very little experience with the new media
of photography and film, but they were very concerned about the uncontrolled broadcasting
of inappropriate images of events and the effect these might have both domestically and
abroad. They were also worried about the implications for espionage. Messter’s Guidelines
for War Photographers and Filmmakers , which appeared on 8 October 1914, made it abun-
dantly clear that reporters were expected to behave in a ‘patriotic’ manner. Photographers
had to deliver three prints from every still taken to the press department of the Deputy
General Staff, which would decide whether or not the material could be shown. Aside from
this limitation, photography was generally permitted. The regulations for camera operators
wanting to shoot footage were more stringent. They required special permission. Only five
firms were granted this privilege - including Messter’s, of course. They had to use specially
marked film stock, while developing and copying were carried out under military supervi-
sion. Negatives and master copies became property of the General Staff and after being
passed by the censor, were only available for rental. Scenes banned by the censor had to be
destroyed and the General Staff also had the right to purchase prints for further use and
exploitation as it saw fit. These restrictions led to accusations against Messter of using his
position in the General Staff to obtain privileges for his firm and to stifle the competition.

Whatever the case, the war footage undeniably helped bring about a rapid in-
crease in production for Messter’s firms. Following dokumente zum weltkrieg in Sep-

59 Oskar Messter ; Film Pioneer

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tember, he announced, on 1 October 1914, the production of a weekly newsreel, the
messter- woche. The first ‘Kriegswochenschau’ (war newsreel) was shown on 13 October
1914, and its items were a model of how to report events from the ‘viewpoint of the Father-
land’ and comply with the stipulated restrictions. 23

In May 1915, ‘Messter’s War Cinemas’ opened at various locations on the West-
ern front - in the former city theatre in Bruges, in Ostend, Comines, Cambrai, Charleville, at
the Command Headquarters and at certain locations close to the front line. Even though the
profits from these cinemas were donated to war widows and orphans, 24 it was an excellent
way to advertise the firm's ‘patriotism,' and - as long as costs were covered - compensated
for the loss of audiences on the home front.

For Messter the film technician, a new military field of action opened up at the
beginning of 1 915. A captain he had befriended asked Messter to lend him a film camera so
that he could film from the air. Messter declined, judging the camera unsuitable for such a
purpose, but he applied himself to the production of a camera with a superior focal length
and a larger format, suitable for filming open country and air reconnaissance work.

The military contract for the manufacture of the first ‘Reihenbildner’ ('serial
image camera’) went to Ed. Messter and another Messter company, the ‘Projektions-
maschinenbau GmbH,’ although later on, Ernemann and the machine construction division
of Geyer also became beneficiaries of contracts. By the end of the war a total of 220 ‘Rei-
henbildner’ had been manufactured and put to use on all fronts in reconnaissance flights.
For an army which was becoming increasingly caught up in a confused war of attrition, the
serial image camera offered a welcome means of providing an aerial view of a battlefield
mainly experienced from the perspective of the trenches. 25 These military contracts given to
Messter’s firms were - like the censorship regulations before - grounds for allegations that
he was profiting from his position to gain an unfair competitive advantage. On the other
hand, the film industry welcomed the boost to the production of raw film stock resulting
from the use of the ‘Reihenbildner,’ thus helping Agfa (the main producer of film stock) to
avoid closure, since the authorities had wanted drastically to reduce the use of raw materials,
with the result that all film production would have had to cease for the duration of the war.

Besides his work on the technical side of film in the interests of the military, 26
which permitted his companies to survive thanks to ‘work of vital service to the war,’
Messter also found time to become chairman of the 'Association for the Preservation of the
Common Interests of Cinematography and Related Groups’, where he represented the inter-
ests of the film industry with the authorities. His military involvement added extra weight to
these interventions. In August 1916 he wrote the memorandum ‘Film as a Political Medi-
um,’ where he pointed out the lack of pro-German film propaganda in neutral countries, 27
while criticising the measures taken against film producers - including Messter’s compa-
nies - in the areas of censorship and taxation.

As the war worsened, the state and the military increasingly began to adopt a
more open attitude towards the arguments of the film producers. The army’s Supreme Com-

60 Martin Koerber

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mand is known to have played a leading role in the establishment of Universum Film AG
(Ufa), which was the recipient of massive capital investments from the German Reich at the
end of 1917, Messter’s film companies, his distribution firms, his cinema in the Mozartsaal
and his workshops merged with Ufa. Messier must have been very satisfied with the sum of
5,3 million goldmarks 28 acquired from this transaction.

The sale made Oskar Messter a rich man, but it also cut him off from his life’s
work. After an exemplary career as a self made man, he retired to a farm in the Bavarian
Alps, in Tegemsee, where he intended to live off his fortune. It soon became clear, however,
just how impossible this form of existence was for him. Thus, while the extraordinary career
of this restless spirit was far from over by 1917, and his various activities in one way or
another connected with film continued up to his death in 1943, his major contributions to
the German cinema ‘logically’ culminated with the creation of Ufa and found a drastically
simplified common denominator in the Weimar dream-factory. A Wilhelmine personality,
he embodied the enterprise of modem Germany’s ‘founding fathers,’ where fierce national-
ism and patriotism could go hand-in hand with an unblinkered, inquisitive mind-set, in
which science and business, popular entertainment and education seemed to form a unity,
held together by the promise of technology to improve the human animal. Only pioneers
can be so self-assured.

Der / Cinematograph , no. 496, 1916

61 Oskar Messier, Film Pioneer

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The French Connection: Franco-German Film
Relations before World War I

Frank Kessler and Sabine Lenk

Introduction

It is well known that before World War I the French film industry played an important, if not
the leading, role in Germany. Starting with the cinema’s earliest years, and continuing well
into the teens, Germany’s western neighbour dominated the international market in all rele-
vant fields: film production, distribution, as well as exhibition. In this essay we would like to
give several examples to illustrate how the French presence developed in Germany, what
sort of shape it took, and how French companies and their products were received. Addition-
ally, we will sketch the forays German companies made into the French market. As such, it
is no more than a first glimpse into the complex question of Franco-German relations, since
little research has so far been conducted either in Germany or in France. Nevertheless, we
have attempted to put together some of the pieces of this puzzle, in order to outline connex-
ions which may eventually help us not only to gain a more specific sense of early German
cinema in its international context, but also to add to current investigations evaluating the
French contribution to German film culture. 1

In a sense, the first days of the cinema were symptomatic of future Franco-Ger-
man film relations. If we time-travel back a hundred years to November 1, 1895, we see the
Brothers Skladanowsky presenting their Bioskop in the Berlin Wintergarten. In Paris, on
28th December, the Brothers Lumiere introduce their Cinematographe in the Salon Indien
du Grand Cafe to a paying public for the first time. The latter event, as it turned out, was of
far greater consequence for the introduction of film to Germany than the Skladanowsky ’s
chronological ‘first.’ Thus, it was the chocolate manufacturer Ludwig Stoll werck who se-
cured a contract for the Deutsche Automaten-Gesellschaft (DAG) for the first commercial
exploitation of the Cinematographe Lumiere in the German Reich, although, in the event,
the DAG secured for itself only 30% of the gross income. 2 The Brothers Skladanowsky, on
the other hand, never succeeded in presenting their invention in Paris. While the reasons
have not been fully explained, it is evident that the Bioskop had no commercial future either
in France or in Germany, 3 The episode anticipates future developments: French firms mas-
sively crowded into the German market, while German efforts in France went more or less
unnoticed.

When consulting contemporary sources for the period up to the outbreak of
World War I, one might easily conclude that French film companies dominated the cinema-
tic landscape of the German Reich. This w'as no doubt the case, but trying to document it
quantitatively is by no means easy. For instance, taking Herbert Biretf s index of films ex-

62 Frank Kessler / Sabine Lenk

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hibited in Germany between 1 895 and 1911 as a starting point, 4 one arrives at the following
picture:

Year

Total

Pathe

Gaumont

Eclair

Eclipse

1905

827

120

1906

578

170

1907

1117

190

100

1908

1986

170

1909

3052

350

320

210

1910

3376

470

180

160

1911

4605

280

130

1912

5417

650

330

130

170

1913

5869

380

360

190

120

1914

3373

190

110

1915

1498

These figures are based solely on the number of titles imported. But since it is impossible to
trace how many printss of each film were in circulation, we need to relativize the numbers,
on the assumption that a substantial group of French titles were outperforming the rest in
terms of popularity and profit. At the same time, not every film distributed by Pathe - the
basis for these figures - was necessarily a Pathe production, so that the relativization needs
to be relativized once more. Finally, the first years are not fully documented due to incom-
plete runs of trade journals, like Der Komet (the paper of the fairground operators), or be-
cause dedicated cinema trade journals, such as Der /Cinematograph, only started being pub-
lished in 1907. 5 One would have to research the daily press: an enormous undertaking
which has not been tackled systematically. In Birett’s Das Filmangebot in Deutschland ,
Lumiere films are not included at all, and there is only one Melies film. In an unpublished
filmography of Star Film’s presence in Germany, Birett has, however, documented 82 titles
which in turn represent only a small part of the approximately 450 Melies films. Thus,
market penetration may have been both quantitatively and qualitatively more extensive than
the figures indicate.

Even if only a few actual records of film imports from the first few years seem to
have survived, it is reasonable to assume that contacts with French production firms must
have been extensive. Arthur Mellini, conservative-national editor-in-chief of the Licht-Bild-
Biihne, describes in an article not otherwise excessively pro-French 6 the situation of the
German film industry after the start of World War I as follows:

France gave the world the gift of cinematography and I can personally attest that
many of the smaller German producers sent their employees to Paris after 1896
in order to find out how it is done. The spies came back across the border, richly
laden with intellectual booty. 7

63 The French Connection

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It is safe to say that, apart from technical know how, films were imported as well, especially
since, at that time, films were indeed ordered directly from the producers. But to assess
accurately how far French films had captured the German market, one would have to work
systematically through the daily press and reconstruct the patterns of local film exhibition.

The French Presence in Germany, the German Presence in Fiance

For French film producers, the German Reich was undoubtedly a most attractive market.
National competition was not up to par (even as late as 1914, firms such as Messter, PAGU
and Vitascope were unable to satisfy the demand from German cinemas out of their own
production), and there were a great many more urban conglomerations in Germany (by
1910, 48 such fully developed urban centres existed) than elsewhere in Europe. This huge
market, finally, was situated right at France’s doorstep. In Birett’s list one finds between
1895 and 1911 (not counting the various Pathe subsidiaries) the French film companies
Eclair, Eclipse, Film d’Art, Film des Auteurs, Gaumont, Lux, Le Lion, Georges Mendel,
Theophile Pathe, Photo-Radia-Films, Films du Polichinelle, Radios as well as Raleigh &
Robert (a company located in Paris and headed by the Englishman Charles Raleigh and the
German Robert Schwobthaler). The number of French firms and labels in Germany even
increased after 191 L

The French presence took on various forms: some Paris companies immediately
established their own branches. Examples are Theophile Pathe and Eclipse. The latter had
already set up an office in Berlin in 1907, barely a year after the firm’s founding in 1906.
Normally, Eclipse abroad worked with the respective national distribution companies, but
in Germany, it had the use of the offices of the Urban Trading Company (established in 1903
by Charles Urban), to which it was at least nominally attached until 1908, when it bought
out the British partner. 8 At around the same time, Theophile Pathe, one of the brothers of the
Pathe Freres founders Charles and Emile, started directly distributing his films in Germany.
He had already worked in Berlin before 1905, as a salesman for cinematographs and optical
equipment, founding the production company ‘Theophile Pathe et compagnie’ in July 1906.
Until 1910, it specialized in documentaries. When the firm closed in 1913, Theophile Pathe
was already a veteran of the Franco-German film business. 9

Other firms gained a toehold by first employing German companies to organize
their distribution before opening a branch office. This was the case with Eclair. Founded in
Paris in 1907, Eclair signed a contract with the ‘Kinematographen- und Films-Industrie-
gesellschaft’ in May 1 908. The latter seems to have exploited mainly second-hand films and
therefore did not make the Eclair films their priority. In the summer of 191 1 Eclair opened
its own office in Berlin Friedrichstrasse, the centre of the German film business. Although
the original company, renamed Deutsche Eclair, was put into compulsory liquidation in
1917, it had already in 1915 under the new name of Decla and the management of, among
others, Erich Pommer begun its illustrious rise as one of the most important production
houses of the early Weimar Republic. 1 " Hardly less convoluted stories could be told about

64 Frank Kessler ! Sabine Lenk

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firms like Lux, Le Lion (which traded directly from Paris until 1909)" or Film d’Art, the
last distributing its costly art films first via Pathe Freres, before taking charge of its own
foreign sales, 12 after letting the Pathe contract lapse in December 1909. 13

But the most important company by far, and not only in Germany, was of course
the ‘Compagnie generate de phonographes, cinematographes et appareils de precision 1 , bet-
ter known as Pathe, Already during its founding year in 1896, Pathe appointed a German
representative in Berlin. 14 Its first German head office opened in 1904, also in Berlin. Soon
regional offices followed in Cologne, Dtisseldorf, Hamburg, Frankfurt a.M., Karlsruhe,
Leipzig, Munich and Posen. In the German trade papers, Pathe is the most frequently cited
foreign production company, not surprisingly perhaps, given the fact that with its world-
wide distribution network, it was perceived as the dominant international player. Pathe ’s
capital resources and profit margins were regularly commented on, in a tone shifting be-
tween admiration and concern. 15

Germany’s presence in France during this period, on the other hand, is under-
researched and seems to have hardly left a trace, A few leads exist, thanks to a list of Paris
production and distribution companies researched by Thierry Lefebvre and Laurent Manno-
ni from the Annuaire du commerce et de l’ Industrie cinematographigue 16 in 1913. Relative-
ly few foreign firms appear to have had branches in France, with the exception of Edison,
Vitagraph, Nordisk and Cines, as well as a few smaller companies. According to this list,
not a single German company had a branch in Paris. Instead, films were distributed via
agents. Paul Lade wig s ‘Union des grandes marques cinematographiques’ represented
Messier; Charles Heifer represented Eiko; ‘Braun et Cie’ took care of Royal Films (Diissel-
dorf) and Dekage-Film-Gesellschaft (Cologne), while the ‘Agence modeme cinematogra-
plaque’ distributed Imperator-Film Berlin. One other name worth mentioning is the
‘Agence E. Hebert’ which offered an Asta Nielsen series including, among others, la suf-
fragette (die suffragette, PAGU, 1913), les enfants du general (die kinder des

GENERALS, PAGU, 1912), CE QU’UNE FEMME VEUT and LES MISERES DE LA VIE. LA SUFFRA-
GETTE was also distributed by International Star Film, evidently in the southern part of
France. In addition, Ernest Hebert apparently represented the ‘Literaria-Film-Gesellschaft,’
having registered this company at his own agency’s address in Paris on October 29th, 1913.

As to what part of the French market might have been captured by German films
remains anyone’s guess. Since no equivalent to Birett’s index of films exhibited exists for
France, it is not even possible to reconstruct the titles. Again, only local research into film
exhibition could help to reconstruct the picture and give insight into the presence of German
films in France. Messter, for one, appears to have calculated five copies for France of his
Henny Porten films (the same figure as for Italy, Belgium and Scandinavia), while 20 copies
were destined to go to Russia, 15 copies to England, including the overseas dominions. 17
The absence of French subsidiaries of German firms does allow one, however, to draw the
conclusion that there was a definite imbalance in the countries’ two-way traffic.

On the other hand, French trade journals, such as Le Courrier cinemato-

65 The French Connection

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graphique and Cine-Journal , did send correspondents to Berlin who reported more or less
regularly on current developments. In the journal Le Cinema from 1913 and 1914, one finds
reports and portraits of German film stars such as Henny Porten, Asta Nielsen, Mia May,
Friedrich Kayssler, Ema Morena, Lotte Neumann, Otto Treptow and Resl Orla. The Orla
worked for the Literaria-Film-Gesellschaft, whom we shall return to as examples of Ger-
man-French cooperation. The director Franz Hofer, at the time still an actor, was introduced
to French readers as a particularly versatile player, and ‘Tun des meilleurs artistes
etrangers.’ 18

Given this paucity of documentation, very little can be said about the extent - if
any - of German companies’ involvement in the day-to-day French filmmaking business.
There are some indications, though, that French firms took an interest in what went on in
Germany. At a meeting on March 1 1th, 1909, in Berlin of ‘all sectors of the business, in-
cluding film distributors and cinema owners,’ there were, among various foreign firms, rep-
resentatives of Gaumont-Berlin, Lux-Berlin, Pathe-Freres- Berlin and Eclipse-Berlin
also present. The meeting, chaired by Oskar Messter, was designed to discuss ‘the Paris
negotiations of March, 15th, where the demands and suggestions of German cinema owners
and distributors are to be aired.’ 19 Another meeting took place on March 25th, in order to
constitute the German section of the ‘Filmverband I.E.F,,’ or ‘Comptoir international des
Editeurs de Films.’ Oskar Messter was elected chairman, with Gertrud Griinspan, head of
the German Lux, as secretary, 20 A few months later, Director Grassi of Gaumont became
treasurer, and thus board member of the ‘Zweckverband Deutscher Kinematographen-In-
teressen,’ which indicates that French firms seem well-represented on German professional
bodies. 21 It is difficult to gauge from these trade reports whether the appointments were
strategic, in that the German bodies wanted to ensure the support of the French companies’
German subsidiaries, in cases of conflict of interest, or whether the country of origin played
no role. The fact remains that representatives of French firms in Germany took on active
roles in the various trade organisations, and represented the interests of the German film
industry, to whose ‘emergency fund’ of 1912, set up to ‘fight the enemies of cinematogra-
phy,’ Pathe Freres, Gaumont and Eclair contributed financially. 22 Similarly, when (also in
1912) the German film industry paid tribute to ‘the most interesting of personalities a cam-
era lens has ever been aimed at,’ that ‘active patron and friend of cinematography,’ Kaiser
Wilhelm II, on the occasion of the 25th anniversary of his reign, the firms Pathe, Gaumont
and Eclipse were in evidence, at least in the commemorative volume, Der Deutsche Kaiser
im Film. 23

Examples of German-French Cooperation

As already mentioned, at the beginning of German-French film relations stands the com-
mercial exploitation of the Cinematographe Lumiere in Germany by Ludwig Stollwerck
and the Deutsche-Automaten-Gesellschaft. Another attempt at cooperation, in the autumn
of 1908, was also the result of a German initiative. The producer-director Heinrich Bolten-

66 Frank Kessler / Sabine Lenk

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Baeckers contacted Charles Pathe, with the aim of setting up an equivalent to the French
Film d’ Art, inviting him to attend a meeting he had arranged with a number of German stage
authors and published writers. Despite positive reactions from the writers, Pathe, for rea-
sons unknown, withdrew from the venture after only a few weeks, whereupon Bolten-Bae-
ckers had to shelve his plans, 24

Evelyn Hampicke, in her paper on Pathe, also mentions contacts between a Paris
film company and two German firms: Alfred Duskes’ firm as as well as PAGU-Vitascope
(represented by Paul Davidson and Julius Greenbaum), On December 28th, 1912, Pathe and
Duskes set up the 'Literaria Film GmbH’ with French capital. A glass house studio was built
in Tempelhof equipped with the most modem facilities for film production. Yet despite the
fact that there was an in-house laboratory, Literaria negatives were sent to Paris. 25 As cus-
tomary for Pathe, the strategy was to keep as much central control as possible even over the
company’s own foreign branch offices, Literaria’s legal status is difficult to determine. In
advertisements, Literaria appears as a subsidiary of Pathe Freres & Co., but. in the Berlin
Chamber of Commerce register, only Duskes signed as partner. It is remarkable that Pathe
should have waited until 1 9 1 2 to open a production branch in Berlin, given that Germany
represented one of the firm’s most important markets. Equally puzzling is the fact that Lit-
eraria, as mentioned above, w ? as not registered in Paris until October 1913, and that it should
appear under the name and address of Ernest Hebert. In papers documenting the forced
expropriation of foreign companies in Germany after the outbreak of World War L 26 there is
a report by Literaria’s official receiver, Otto Mosgau. According to his statement, Duskes
produced mostly independently, and Pathe bought his films (at 24 pfennig per meter). If the
options were not taken up by Pathe, Duskes was free to market the films in Germany. This
reflects the fact that Pathe had given Literaria a long-term credit of 30,000 marks as a finan-
cial basis, but was not in fact Literaria’s co-proprietor. Similar business arrangements exist-
ed with PAGU-Vitascope: Pathe bought the negatives and developed them in Paris for
(world-wide?) distribution. On July 1st, 1914, Pathe also took a lease on a Berlin studio,
originally built by Julius Greenbaum in 1913 at WeiBensee, paying 41,000 marks a year.
This expansion by Pathe into the German market came to an abrupt end only a month later,
when war was declared. 27

Gaumont’s fortunes in Germany are also worth mentioning. Shortly after the
founding of a first branch office in the German Reich, an interesting proposal for coopera-
tion was being discussed between Leon Gaumont and Oskar Messter, Already by November
1902, Gaumont owned the rights to a satisfactory (gramophone disk -based) system of
sound-image synchronisation, and Gaumont ’s catalogue advertised ‘sound pictures’ in
1904. Messter’s also began marketing ‘Tonbilder’ by August 1903, and together, the two
firms soon captured not only their respective national markets, but occupied a kind of world
monopoly. Already in 1903 plans were afoot on the German side to stabilize this market
situation. In particular, Messter was interested in concluding a contract which could ‘assure
the joint exploitation and pooling of patents with legal protection secured worldwide. ’ 2K To

67 The French Connection

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this end, Messter wanted to found a company to which both firms contributed their sound
film rights and patents, in order to share the future profits, Gaumont, however, was not
interested, presumably because it considered its position on the world market to be the
stronger of the two. Nonetheless, the two firms came to an amicable agreement to divide the
territory up between them, and to refrain from competing in each other’s national markets.
In Austria, they traded under the name Gaumont-Messter-Chronophon-Biophon. 29

The Image of French Films in Germany

As is evident from what has been said so far, no clear picture emerges regarding the recep-
tion situation: French firms dominated the market, and German exhibitors heavily depended
on their products. This means that in many respects, it was business as usual , overriding
considerations of national provenance. Yet the economic power of Germany’s traditional
‘arch enemy’ was a thorn in many people’s sides and triggered German nationalist reflexes.
Strictly speaking, Pathe, Gaumont and the others were simply competitors on the market,
but even in the years before World War I, Pathe was attacked for producing ‘tendentious
films.’ 30 Significantly, in the struggles over the most important change to revolutionize the
film business in Europe, namely Pathe’s 1909 attempt to move from film sale to a monopoly
rental system, the fact that the instigator was French played no role (especially since Pathe’s
French rivals were equally opposed). The measure split the emergent industry along differ-
ent lines. In an open letter to the ‘Zweckverband’ (the official industry lobby), one repre-
sentative claiming to ‘speak for all those concerned but who would rather not start an argu-
ment’ wondered whether the ‘association should concern itself with the interests of all its
members, or whether it should be representing the interests of the producers against Pathe
Freres?’ 31 - thus hinting at the well-known conflict of interest between producers and exhib-
itors. As late as July 1914, when public opinion was already being prepared for war, the
Licht-Bild-Bithne commented on the takeover of Union- Vitascope by Pathe as ‘a further
step on the way to capitalist centralization of the film business,’ without falling in with anti-
French sentiment or attacking Pathe.

In general, then, French firms w ere given the relatively neutral treatment of com-
petitors, As from about 1913 onwards anti-French feelings were being stirred up and propa-
ganda polemics came to the fore, French firms reacted in different ways. Pathe continued to
advertise with its own French-sounding name ‘Pathe Freres & Co’ and kept its own distribu-
tion. Leon Gaumont decided to have his films handled by well-known German distributors
(such as Martin Dentler, Ludwig Gottschalk, Johannes Nitzsche) whom for the most part he
bought up; he also founded the ‘Deutsche Gaumont Gesellschaft’ on September 12th, 1913,
investing 99% of the capital, with the remaining 1% owned by his (French) manager. The
name convinced many that they were dealing with a German company; even the official
receiver, appointed in September 1914 to liquidate the assets, appears to have taken some
time before understanding the complex ownership situation. 32 Eclair, as mentioned, turned
itself into ‘Deutsche Eclair’ in 1914, again in a move to counter anti-French sentiment. 33

68 Frank Kessler i Sabine Lenk

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From the end of July 1914, the German film industry went on the offensive
‘against all that is foreign, especially (...) foreign films.’ 34 A ‘Deutscher Filmbund’ (evident-
ly representing producers and distributors) called upon cinema owners to stop showing for-
eign films, 35 An unsigned leader in the Lickt-Bild-Buhne (probably by Arthur Mellini) re-
marked sarcastically: ‘All of a sudden we are being told that our supposedly German film
programmes were really French all along, and since now we’re ashamed of this anti-nation-
al situation, we’re clearing the decks: no more French films on German screens,’ 36 Indirect-
ly, the article hints at the various factions behind the campaign: German nationalism and
patriotic pro-war enthusiasm are a welcome pretext for German film producers to get rid of
the giants of the trade, Pathe and Gaumont, and to force cinema owners to exhibit domestic
films. 37 Mellini, in another article, well aware of the envy, jealousy and hypocrisy, can only
hold up a mirror to German producers: ‘I bet that whoever throws the first stone at Max
Linder is also the one least capable of imitating him, and that he who rails the loudest
against Pathe is also the one who most often used to frequent its German subsidiaries. Who
had started lecture tours with educational films and who had introduced the first weekly
newsreels, if not the French?’ 38 The Licht-Bild-Buhne here takes sides with the cinema own-
ers, primarily interested in popular film programmes and little bothered about the origin of
their films. In general, the French contribution was not called into question. Ferdinand
Hardekopf even attributed the invention of intertitles to the French: ‘Ingenious Pathe, in a
move meanwhile imitated by everyone, started conveying to the public those parts of the
action which could only be understood with the help of commentary (letters, description of
settings) no longer by employing a film-explainer, but by printing words onto the film it-
self.’ 39 As far as quality is concerned, the French were recognized to have set the standards.
About a 1909 (German?) series extolling ‘the joy of horse riding,’ the reviewer remarked
that ‘these are films whose realism, quality and naturalness would be impossible to surpass
even by a French production.’ 40

To what extent the German public actually perceived French films as French is
difficult to judge. In most cases, cinema-goers would have been quite unaware and uncon-
cerned, since the films were ‘Germanicized’ by way of titles, characters' names and intertitles.
French comics were re-baptised: Caiino was called ‘Piefke,’ the child star Bebe became ‘Fritz-
chen.’Rigadin was ‘Moritz,’ and Gavroche ‘Nunne.’ 41 Intertitles were sometimes criticised for
containing translation mistakes or nonsense. Teachers often used these examples as part of
their complaint against the ‘nuisance factor cinema,’ and the trade press expressed the hope
that ‘a responsible letter campaign (...) might persuade French and English film producers to
show a little more consideration for the linguistic sensibilities of their German audiences.’ 43
Here, too, however, there were voices who suspected darker designs: ‘When a classic Gallic
comedian and his typically French wife are constantly being addressed as “Herr und Frau
Lehmann," it is a little far-fetched to complain about this as an insult to the dignity of the
German people; even if it does signal a regrettable lack of taste, and an attempt to mislead (by
trying to disguise the irritatingly incessant projection of French screen insanities).’ 43

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How differentiated perceptions could be of French economic dominance in the
cinema industry and French ideological influence via the films is shown by an example
from an unlikely source, discovered by Herbert Birett: the Ostasiatischer Lloyd-Shanghaier
Nachrichten. In a first notice from July 1907, the cinematograph is characterised as ‘one of
the most popular entertainments, 1 adding that all seven establishments in town showing
moving pictures acquire their films from Pathe. 44 In August 191 1, it is reported that a certain
Mr Pasche earned himself the gratitude of the whole German expatriate community in
Shanghai by having installed in his ‘New Point Hotel 1 an ‘image projecting machine 1 and
having signed a contract with the ‘leading supplier of the product, 1 i.e. Pathe, for ‘only the
most up-to-date films.’ 45 Even if the reviews of the programmes themselves are somewhat
patronizing, the decision to sign a contract with Pathe is endorsed as a straightforward sign
of quality. Two years later, in April and May 1913, a series of articles complain about ‘the
coarsening of the screen 1 ;

The firm Pathe Freres, leader in the field of film production, greatly promotes
French interests, Pathe films are shown in all big cities around the globe, they
glorify French institutions, inventions, the army, the navy, and, in order to secure
a market also in English-speaking parts of the world, they do not hesitate to praise
the brother-in-arms across the channel (...) while on purpose ignoring events in
Germany altogether. As far as I can judge from the vantage point of Shanghai, the
cinema seems to have become the equivalent of the British-French global press
campaign against us, keeping silent about anything which might put Germany in
a favourable light. (...) As long as the French film firm dominates the globe, there
seems little chance that the German situation will receive fair coverage.

But this point of view did not pass without comment in subsequent issues:

One cannot hold it against the well-known French firm Pathe Freres from Valen-
ciennes that it is primarily concerned with French achievements on screen. It is
not true, however, that it does so exclusively. Pathe Gazette, for example, often
shows pictures of different events in Germany and other countries. Last Sunday,
for example, in the Apollo Theater, a parade, inspected by the German Kaiser,
was very well received indeed by those Germans present in the theatre. In any
case, the patriotism of a French firm is praiseworthy in itself, and one cannot
demand of it that it applauds the achievements of a nation that every Frenchman
considers his arch enemy. It seems ridiculous and highly deplorable, on the other
hand, if German cinemas show pictures of French war actions, glorifying the
events of 1870/71, as the writer of this article had occasion to note in Stuttgart
last year. 46

Considered ‘agitalion’ by some, accepted as legitimate representation of national interests
by others, French films seem to have been critizised only insofar as German cinema owners

70 Frank Kessler l Sabine Lenk

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failed to make a better choice (and by implication, German film companies failed to provide
better products). Elsewhere, similar discrepancies can be observed: ‘Schundfilms’ (‘film
trash') were criticized, especially when of French provenance, but Pathe’s commitment to
educational cinematography 'towards which it has turned its careful attention’ was praised
and held up as exemplary. 47

The picture thus emerging of Franco-German relations is lively and complex.
The only kind of periodization possible is that, after 1913, a more explicit trend towards
anti-French commentary can be found, but even here, as we saw, the line is not a straight
one. As the example of the Ostasiatische Lloyd shows, one would have to research the
available sources more systematically in order to see what sort of generalizations are tena-
ble. Remarkably enough, most of the positions, sentiments and complaints from the teens
echo down the decades almost without change. Ironically, the French film industry, then the
world leader, became itself one of those national cinemas also feeling the mixture of admi-
ration, resentment and envy towards another successful world leader - the United States -
which in the first two decades was Germany’s stance towards France.

French imports on the German market

71 The French Connection

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The Danish Influence:

David Oliver and Nordisk in Germany

Evelyn Hampicke

The ‘Danish influence' on early German cinema has always been proverbial, associated as it
is with a procession of stars and directors who became household names in Wilhelmine
Germany: from Asta Nielsen and Olaf Fpnns to Viggo Larsen, Gunnar Tolnaes and Valdemar
Psilander, from Stellan Rye and Urban Gad to Alfred Lind and the legendary cameraman
Axel Graatkjaer. Less known is the fact that their fame depended on an international indus-
trial infrastructure, and little understood are the ways a handful of entrepreneurs put it in
place, keeping this transfer of talents going in the turbulent years that followed Germany’s
declaration of war on its neighbours to the east and west, but not to the north. One of the most
colourful and influential among the businessmen who seized their chances was David Oliver.
His association with Nordisk was crucial to the Danish connexion, as it would be to the
foundation of Ufa.

The period leading up to the outbreak of World War I and the first months of the
war were marked by major activity in the German film industry: mergers, splits, new forma-
tions at any price. The market demanded to be serviced. Pathe, the great rival, had been
eliminated. Nordisk, a Danish film company with international operations, took advantage
of this situation to expand its German subsidiary, Nordische Films Co. The firm, which had
been operating in Germany since 1906, evolved over the succeeding few years into the
country’s largest distributor. It was run by Ole Olsen, director of the Danish parent company,
and the German businessman David Oliver. Oliver brought with him the Berliner Kamrner-
lichtspiele on Potsdamer Platz and numerous picture palaces in the provinces, particularly in
the eastern part of the country-, alt of which he owned.

Under orders from the Copenhagen-based parent company, the German subsid-
iary pursued a strategy of securing the German market for Nordisk productions - irrespective
of political developments - as well as of developing Nordisk ’s influence with a view to future
prospects after the war had ended. As a consequence, Nordische Films required a certain
amount of capital to finance new establishments and acquisitions on the German market. The
wartime situation made it advantageous to carry out business via a German executive or,
even better, via a company registered in Germany.

On 6 February 1915, the Nordisk Films Kompagnl in Copenhagen decided to
increase its share capital from 2 to 4 mil lion kroner. One million was put at the disposal of the
board to secure closer ties with other foreign companies and to acquire the assets of those
partners who preferred a cash payment to owning shares. Production was, where possible, to

72 Evelyn Hampicke

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be boosted so that it would be operational when peace came. At that point Nordische Films
maintained German branches only in Berlin, Breslau, Diisseldorf and Leipzig: there was
room for expansion. David Oliver started building up the distribution company Nordische
Films into a successful, shrewdly protected horizontal group of companies that its compet-
itors regarded with great hostility.

On 23 March 1915, Oliver Films concluded a partnership agreement in Bremen.
The company handled the production, purchase and sale as well as distribution of films, all
of which hinged on a basic capital of 50,000 marks. On 28 April 1915, the company was
entered in the Berlin register of companies as No. 13 732.

Although film distribution was listed as one element of Oliver Films’s activities
in the register of companies, the general sales operation was run by Nordische Films. How-
ever, these being times of political upheaval Oliver Films was able to produce, purchase, sell
and distribute films. The firm remained flexible and, if threatened with separation from the
Danish parent company or even in case of a forcible takeover of administration on the part of
Nordische Films, it could continue to run the company’s entire business as a purely German
firm. Acquiring the former property of Vitascope in Lindenstrasse, Oliver appointed Her-
mann Fellner, former head of Vitascope and of the Projektions AG ‘Union 1 (PAGU), as
artistic director.

Oliver Films began to enter the German market from July onwards. Its advertis
ing posters featured polar bears balancing on a globe and a sleepy lion atop a stately pedestal.
It was not long before the first disapproval was voiced. The Lichtbild-Buhne assessed the
situation on 7 August 1915 as follows: ‘If he (Ole Olsen) has secured Mr Oliver to carry out
his plans in Germany then we must exercise great caution, especially since Oliver has proved
himself to be a connoisseur of our theatre relations.’ By this time David Oliver had indeed
become something of an expert about the German film business. He had been a theatre-
owner since 1905, His cinemas made huge profits, providing him with the means to take risk.
He was familiar with the German distributors and had been doing business with them for
years. And, more importantly, he was aware of the needs, the problems and the weak points
of the sector. On 23 April 1915, Oliver registered as a member of the Press and Propaganda
Committee. He later became a member of the executive committee of the Association for the
Preservation of the Common Interests of Cinematography and Related Groups.

Shortly after the founding of his own company, in the spring of 1915, Oliver
clinched another successful business deal. In order to secure and expand the production
potential in the west of Germany he acquired from PAGU the large-capacity Union Theatre
chain, for one million or - if one believes other sources - 700,000 marks. According to
Oliver, the purchase was financed from his own profits made in his theatres, and Nordisk
was not involved in any way. Later accounts from Ole Olsen, however, point to the role of
Copenhagen in the deal. PAGU and Oliver merged their theatres to form the new company
Union -Theater-GnibH, At its head sat chairman Oliver, Gliicksmann, another director, was
transferred from PAGU to run the new company. Chairman Paul Davidson also joined the

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new company’s board of directors. Since the beginning of the war, somewhere in the region
of 65 cinemas had become regular customers of Nordische Films, and all of them were quite
satisfied with the swift service it offered.

The growing influence of Nordische Films generated fears in the German film
industry - among distributors as well as some theatre-owners. PAGU, although the largest
film company at the time, was recovering from dire financial straits. Its business relations
with Pathe had been destroyed by the onset of war, and the amalgamation with Jules Green-
baum’s Vitascope did not yield the desired success. With the proceeds from the Union The-
atre sale, PAGU had the opportunity of putting production back on its feet. It was to stick to
production. The sales of PAGU’s films were ensured by the distribution contract with Nor-
dische Films. Oliver’s Nordische Films Co. had 7000 metres of film per week for distribu-
tion: of these, PAGU and Oliver Film supplied 2000 metres and another 2000 metres were
bought in Germany; Nordisk supplied 2000 metres from Copenhagen, while the remaining
1000 metres came from Sweden (Svenska) and America (American Biograph and Kalem).
Advertising posters made a great show of the firms Nordische had under contract, handling
them as an extra string to the company’s bow. A glance at the distributed productions of

Die Lichtbiid-Buhne ,
10 July 1915

74 Evelyn Hampkke

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these firms explains the self-confidence with which the distributor Oliver recast the prob-
lem of competition as an issue of quality. Nordische Films delivered to its own theatres as
well as to those with which it had a distribution contract. But the criticisms made against
Nordisk/Nordisehe were increasingly mollified when David Oliver entered the debates of
the various organisations in the German film industry. The speakers emphasised that their
personal attacks were not directed at Mr Oliver. He had a long-standing reputation as a man
of honour, his official explanations were received with complete confidence, and his trust-
worthiness was uncontested. The very fact that David Oliver was the link between the
various companies and was at the head of Nordische Films seemed in the eyes of the cinema
owners to guarantee a rosy future, because Mr Oliver’s interests were known to lie chiefly
with the German exhibition sector, into which he had invested a great deal more capital and
which he regarded as a much greater obligation than his role in Nordisk. He could therefore
be counted upon, in the event of a conflict, to put his theatres’ interests before those of
Nordisk.

In conflicts Oliver would, of course, represent the interests of Nordisk, of Nor-
dische Films, but also of Oliver Films, as well as of other firms for which Nordische acted as
distributor. The interest of the firms working with Nordische Films was a common one, and
was in accordance with that of the parent company in Copenhagen: the conquest of the
German market and the securing of profit for all the companies involved. In order to reduce
the threat to this sector of the German film industry and to avoid any confrontation, Oliver
made concessions to the German film industry. In August 1915, he opened his theatre to the
latest Henny Porten films, which had not been shown in the leading Berlin picture palaces.
In the summer of 1915, he conceded, wherever financially possible, to the demands of the
theatre-owners and the film industry. For example, he gave them assurances that no further
cinemas would be acquired by his firm.

Oliver was a producer, a distributor, and a theatre-owner. The competition was
raging at all levels. But Oliver was an experienced businessman, who protected his enter-
prises on all fronts. He exploited the requirements of the German market, expressed by the
theatre-owners in discussions within the German film industry in August 1915, for more
short films - a demand that was not being met by German producers. Nordische Films
included in its distribution lists some of these ‘small pictures.’

Oliver Films presented production figures which rivalled the proportions of
PAGO productions. In its second year of existence, Oliver Films registered a total of 48
films in its distribution for Nordische Films. In 1917 it produced 72, in 1918, 50 films. The
records of Oliver Films’ production figures for 1915-19 are to be found in Herbert Birett’s
Verzeichnis in Deutschland getaufener FUme. The production policy of the company was an
interesting one, since it included both feature films and documentaries. There were come-
dies, detective films, melodramas, alongside documentary films, films about cities and re
ports on field hospitals, events at the front, and on the industry. Documentary film produc-
tion continued until 1919. These films had a more limited range than the feature films the

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company produced, im kampf um verdun, kirschblute im elbtal, lfjch i athletische

WETTKAMPFE DES 1 9 . ARMEEKORPS, WINTER IM HARZ. UNSERE HELDEN AN DER SOMME

were just some of the tides on offer.

The company placed an increasing emphasis on its purely German orientation,
and the firm appeared to brag with its commitment to all things German: ‘We claim and can
prove wherever necessary that our company works only with German capital and that, in the
same way as all other firms in our sector, it deserves the blessing of our Fatherland. It is our
company's efforts to instill the German spirit into German films that have won us the best
that Germany has to offer for our company.' 1 This raises the question of the nature of the
links between the various enterprises. In the newspapers of the day, there was talk of the
dangers of trusts; PAGU, Oliver Films and Nordische Films were depicted as subsidiaries of
Nordisk. It can be assumed that PAGU had a business relationship with Nordische Films in
the form of a purchase/distribution contract, but that beyond this it acted independently. It
was only the dreaded deficit balances and acquisitions of capital from the PAGU/Vitascope/
Pathe period that caused a certain dependence on a strong and above all business-minded
partner capable of safeguarding production sales. It could certainly not be described as a
subsidiary company in the narrow sense of the term. Furthermore, Davidson, who sat on the
board of the Union Theatre chain, and Fellner, artistic director of Oliver Films, brought with
them other influences and obligations. And in his official statements David Oliver would
always stress that Oliver Films was not in fact a subsidiary company.

This state of affairs called for a new approach to the trust debate: ‘The PAGU
and Oliver Films operate in Germany and their entire net profit stays in Germany. As far as
the theatres are concerned, the vast sums spent on rent, cinema taxes, lighting and so on stay
in Germany. Approximately four-sevenths of the purchasing and distribution of films re-
mains in Germany, the other three parts abroad. The entire net profit remains in Germany.’ 2

The capita] obligations between the firms involved were to remain clear, limited
and incontestable, as Oliver constantly pointed out, guaranteeing the accuracy of his state-
ments by stressing the financial liability involved, but there were obligations as far as per-
sonnel were concerned, a dependency particularly reinforced by the common interest in
commercial survival and profit. There was evidence that personnel would transfer in the
course of financial transactions between the enterprises, in the form of either exchanges
between firms or following the direct intervention of David Oliver in the commercial run-
ning of the various enterprises.

What the records show is that in August 1915 David Oliver was a partner in
Nordisk in Copenhagen, company director of Nordische Films (the largest distribution firm
in Germany), owner and director of Oliver Films, and owner and director of the Union-
Theater-GmbH. Oliver had to ensure that he was legally unimpeachable. Yet even today we
cannot be certain as to the true nature of the foreign capital issue in the group’s enterprises.
Conjecture about the actual interconnections between Nordisk, Oliver and Nordische Films
gives something like the following picture:

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1) It would have been possible for Oliver, as a partner of Nordisk, to have used
this company’s capital. This could even have been the case during the war peri-
od, since Nordisk was supported by capital from German banks. It is also possi-
ble that the acquisitions in Germany were carried out with Oliver’s capital or
with the capital he took in Germany and secured, as a countermove, by the afore-
mentioned ’shares issue.’ Foreign credit for the war period and its aftermath
appeared lucrative. On 13 December 1918, Nordisk, whose shares at the stock
market had risen from a loss value to more than 180 points in the previous
month, announced that it had sold a part of its foreign interests on favourable
terms. This indicates there was pressure to dispose of their significant involve-
ment in cinemas and film production companies in Germany. 3 In 1921 the shares
in Nordisk were transferred to the Deutsche Bank consortium.

2) Nordische Films was a true subsidiary of Nordisk. Its official managing direc-
tor was Ole Olsen, but David Oliver figured in this function as well. Oliver was
not a mere puppet of Olsen, but rather acted as his deputy, enjoying far-reaching
powers. Nordische Films was, with its separate enterprises, a vertical group of
companies able to withstand a split with the parent company in times of war and
remain operative and competitive, even if the subsidiary company abroad be-
came subject to punitive measures. All the functions performed by Nordische
Films could easily have been carried out by Oliver Films, according to the com-
pany contract of 1915. From the end of 1916 on, Nordisk no longer sold com-
pleted films to Germany, and repeated requests for import were turned down on
the German side. Rumours began to spread that Nordische Films would abandon
the business. A full page insert in Der Kinematograph of 27 August 1917 warned
the company’s competitors of unfair competition manoeuvres.

Oliver provided war loans amounting to a total of 1.25 million marks. Before
Ufa had even entered the register of companies, Oliver Films initiated proceedings against
the take-over of several theatres in Rhineland-Westphalia: a Westphalian bank was found
to be involved, and a large distribution company was accused of buying up cinemas. In
1918, Nordische Films, the firm established by David Oliver, but probably under contract
from Nordisk Films Kompagni and consisting of Oliver Films, the theatre companies of
Nordische Films, and the distribution firm Nordische, merged with Ufa. The PAGU fol-
lowed suit.

David Oliver, managing director of Nordische Films, became the first expert in
his division at Ufa, with an annual salary of 44,000 marks plus a profit sharing bonus. He
was responsible for the theatre and distribution side. In May 1919 he became a member of
the board of Decta. In 1920 rumours began circulating about an imminent merger of Decla-
Bioscop and Ufa. On 2 December 1920, David Oliver left the board. 4 His place was taken by
Rudolf Meinert, and Erich Pommer took over the production aspect. From this point on,

77 The Danish Influence

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~)er Kinematograph, 10 July 1915

there is little trace of David Oliver in the film business except as property developer and real
estate financier . 5 In the five years of his brief but significant involvement in the cinema
industry, however, he could claim to have navigated innumerable Danish films - and with it
their stars - through the stormy seas of nationalist propaganda and import regulations, pro-
viding German audiences with some of their most cherished entertainment fare. What in
retrospect could all too easily appear to have been only a minor footnote to the ‘Great War*
has nevertheless the always useful lesson of ‘non olet.’ Ole Olsen’s and David Oliver’s
activities are a timely reminder of the early cinema’s truly international outlook: how else
could a German entrepreneur have single-handedly defended the German market against
domestic competition on behalf of a Danish company?

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Paul Davidson, the Frankfurt Film Scene,
and afgrunden in Germany

Peter Ldhn

The year 1905 saw the emergence in many German cities of the first locally oriented film
companies. The permanent exhibition centres drew new consumers from all levels of socie-
ty, and from the middle of 1906 onwards, ‘regular establishments’ proved so popular that
the cinematography business experienced a boom. The city of Frankfurt am Main played a
leading role in what was an exceptionally successful period for the development of the
German film industry, from 1916-1918. The economist Karl Zimmerschied even referred to
Frankfurt am Main as the birthplace of the Ufa conglomerate. 1 Zimmerschied is alluding to
the beginnings of an economic concentration in the film industry - the ‘projection joint-
stock company Union’ in Frankfurt, founded by the businessman Paul Davidson and later
known as PAGU (for: Projektions-Aktiengesellschaft ‘Union’),

On 21 March 1906, within days of the opening of the first local cinema in Frank-
furt, the four partners - Paul Davidson, Hermann Wronker, Julius Wiesbader and Max Bau-
er - founded the Allgemeine Kinematographen-Theater Gesellschaft, Union -Theater fiir
Lebende und Tonbilder GmbH (AKTG). It was Davidson who took over the role of manag-
ing director and put his personal stamp on the company, while the remaining three partners
stayed out of the limelight. Davidson was bom in Loetzen, East Pmssia on 30 March 1871.
After completing his management studies he worked in the textiles trade. 2 His activities in
Frankfurt date back to 1902, when he became director of a Frankfurt night-watch and secu-
rity firm, regarded as the first of its kind in Germany. The department store owner Hermann
Wronker was the co-founder of the company. He ran department stores in Hannover, Nu-
remberg, and other cities, but the chain’s headquarters were based in Frankfurt. Julius Wies-
bader, bom on 26 November 1 868 in Heidelberg, owned the ‘Julius Wiesbader Mattress and
Upholstery Factory’ and was the director of the patent development company ‘Sanitas.’ He
was also part-owner of the real estate management firm ‘Max Bauer & Julius Wiesbader,’
Max Bauer, bom in Frankfurt on 6 May 1870 3 and Julius Wiesbader owned valuable proper-
ty at 60 Kalverstrasse, where August Haslwanter had set up his first cinema, Haslwanter’s
commercial success may have been the impetus for the two real estate salesmen to join
Davidson and Wronker in founding a company which would develop a nationwide cinema
chain. The capital they raised - at least 20,000 Reichsmark - was sufficient to establish a
limited company, but it is safe to say that the partners put greater sums at the disposal of the
company for setting up a successful cinema chain.

The AKTG opened its first cinema in June 1906 in Mannheim, called ‘Union
Theatre,’ The abbreviation ‘U.T.’ became the brand name and was synonymous with superi-

79 Paul Davidson

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or cinema theatre culture well into the 1920s. The company expanded rapidly, and new
‘U.T.’ cinemas were opened almost monthly: in July 1906 in Frankfurt am Main at 17
Grosse Gallusstrasse (the owners of the property being Wiesbader & Bauer); in August in
Cologne in the Hohestrasse 23-25, then in Elberfeld, Ludwigshafen, and Diisseldorf, al-
ways on prime commercial sites. In February 1 907, the AKTG also opened a theatre abroad,
in Brussels (36 Place Broukere) 4 Little else is known about the activities of the AKTG
abroad, except that the company also opened international 'Union Theatres’ in Amsterdam
(March 191 1) and Strasbourg (autumn 1913). According to Zitnmerschied, a businessman
by the name of Potlack had had ‘an option right until 20 February 1910 on [the AKTG]’ 5 :

He first wanted the company to be turned into a Belgian joint-stock company
and merge it with the Societe generate des theatres cinematographies. This would
have become the first company to operate internationally on a grand scale. But
no use was made of this option right. 6

No evidence of these activities has come to light either on the part of the AKTG or of
correspondence between Pollack and Davidson. The successful expansion and even excep-
tional economic success of the AKTG is proven by the profits for the financial year 1907,
which amounted to 98,067 marks. Profits on this scale were also recorded for the following
years. 7

In addition to its national activities, the AKTG pursued local Frankfurt interests.
Apart from the U.T. in the Gallusstrasse, referred to in the trade press as ‘Theater du Nord,’
it opened in November 1907 the second U.T. cinema, at 74 Kaiserstrasse. But other finan-
ciers with large sums of capital were buying into the Frankfurt cinema business. In 1907 the
‘Edison Theatre’ opened at 14 Schafergasse, under the management of Messrs Hohn and
Eichenauer. The cinema was equipped with an Edison projector and showed American pro-
ductions. The Frankfurt film theatre scene moved further ahead with the opening of ‘sound
picture theatres’* specially built for showing ‘Tonbilder.’ These forerunners of the sound
film were based on Messter’s system, the ‘Biophon,’ which he had presented in a Berlin
music hall with great success as early as 1903. 9

In the Biophon process, sound and image were recorded separately. Having first
recorded an aria or song on gramophone, the appropriate scenes would be staged and
mimed in a film studio, sychronous with the sound. In the early days three minutes was the
maximum length on technical grounds. While not the only inventor (both Edison and Gau-
mont had similar ideas), Messter’s commercial edge was largely due to his superior tech-
niques of synchronically creating an impressively ‘natural’ effect. The most popular ‘Ton-
bilder’ featured opera arias, as well as variety acts by famous comedians. But it was not
until 1907, with the rise of the local cinemas, that Messter’s business really began to boom.
Initially, he was able to sell his reproduction apparatus on the German market without any
competition. The Frankfurt businessman Heinrich Putzo saw demonstrations of these sound
pictures in Messter’s Berlin ‘Biophon Theatre’ at Unter den Linden in April 1907, and with-

80 Peter Lcihn

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in three months he had raised the capital to enter the sound picture theatre business in grand
style. He founded the Deutsche Tonbild-Theater GmbH with the aim of opening sound
picture theatres in several German cities. This made him the third financier in Frankfurt to
attempt to spread his activities in the cinematic field to other cities. Putzo cooperated with
Messter on a commercial basis and obtained from him not only the Biophon projection
equipment, but also a large quantity of the sound pictures, which were also produced and
sold by Messter

The premiere of the Frankfurt ‘sound picture theatre’ at 54 Zeil [a Frankfurt
street] took place on 8 June 1907 to a ‘completely packed house.’ Newspaper reports noted
that this opening had been preceded a day earlier by a test presentation where

high society accepted the invitation to observe the progress that had been made
in the field of the art of projection, especially with respect to speaking, living
photographs. The long-held desire to create such a work of art which would
appeal even to the educated sectors of society has now finally been realised and
is unlikely to disappoint the Frankfurt public. 10

The programme of the premiere was typical of Messier’s sound picture productions - a mix
of cultural performances and appeals to patriotism and national pride, in keeping with the
tastes of the times - which on this occasion included musical sound pictures as well as
documentary footage of the Kaiser, the latter also a Messter speciality.” The equipment of
the ‘sound picture theatre’ at 54 Zeil set high quality standards and was described by the
reviews as ‘extremely elegant in every respect, extremely practical and tasteful, and
equipped in a manner entirely fitting the modem age.’ 12

Fierce competition between the various cinema theatres in Frankfurt forced the
other cinemas to provide the same level of comfort and service. Only three months later, in
September 1907, the trade magazine Der Kinematograph reported that ‘the Frankfurt cine-
matographic theatres’ were trying hard ‘to win favour with the public by frequently chang-
ing programmes. A further advance is that some theatres have done away with the annoying
orchestra accompaniment and replaced it with suitable piano compositions which illustrate
the pictures projected on their screens.’ 13 Only a year had passed since Davidson had set up
the first ‘U.T.’ with ‘wooden benches and orchestra.’ Davidson and the AKTG responded to
the success of the ‘sound picture theatre’ by establishing their own sound film theatre in
Frankfurt in November 1907, at 74 Kaiserstrasse. The two cinemas embarked upon a com-
petition that proved lucrative for both parties. The ‘sound picture theatre,’ for instance,
scored a major hit with its ‘Caruso gramophone presentations’ shown simultaneously with a
guest appearance by Camso at the Frankfurt opera. The demand for the Caruso sound pic-
tures far outstripped that for his opera performances, and his presence on the screen of the
‘sound picture theatre’ lasted for weeks: ‘The Camso gramophone presentations are also
unequalled in the naturalness of their reproduction and their purity, and have a simply stun-
ning effect, giving the public the impression that they are actually seeing and hearing the

81 Paul Davidson

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great Italian artist in the flesh.’ 14 Sound film production was a huge success both in terms of
quality and quantity, and the reputation that the cinema theatres gained as a result paved the
way for new kinds of audience. Messter acted on this strategy for quality and won promi-
nence for his sound picture recordings, able to afford the kind of fees that attracted even the
likes of Caruso.' 5

Rising to the challenge, Davidson countered with another qualitative innovation
when he presented a real sound film premiere to the public: ‘From 1 January the Union
Theatre at 74 Kaiserstrasse will bring out an entirely new’ hit and 8 themes from Der Walz-
ertraum, the latest operetta by Oscar Strauss, with the original cast from the Vienna
Carltheater.’ The operetta had been premiered in Vienna on 5 March 1907, and the sound
picture extracts were presented to the public with all the status of an opera house premiere.
Heinrich Putzo, who in the meantime had become the owner of sound picture theatres in
Braunschweig and Magdeburg, took over another theatre in Frankfurt and became a com-
petitor of Davidson, as well as his neighbour: he opened a cinema at 50 Kaiserstrasse, the
site of the former ‘Kinephontheater.’ Under the new name of ‘Boulevard Theatre,’ it staked
its success on ‘humorous and actuality genres.* 1 *

Thus, the greatest service performed by the sound pictures was not to introduce
a new technology, but to enhance the social status of cinema among those at home in the
world of the established arts. Shortly thereafter, the ‘Tonbilder’ as a genre went into steep
decline, either because they experienced a dramatic fall in profit margins due to the huge drop
in prices for sound pictures in 1 909, or because they had fulfilled their purpose as cultural
bait for the better-off. Putzo, the cinema entrepreneur, for instance, experienced financial
difficulties in 1910 and was unable to prevent the rapid bankruptcy of his company. 17

After these stormy beginnings of Davidson’s AKTG, the years that followed saw
a period of commercial consolidation. As indicated, the company’s annual profits between
1908 and 1910 averaged approximately 100,000 marks. 18 In 1908 the AKTG opened two
more picture palaces, in Pforzheim and Mannheim, and in 1909 more cinemas were built in
Frankfurt and Berlin. The AKTG continued to aim for an upmarket image in their cinemas,
without losing sight of the popular aspects of the business. At the opening of the new ‘Union
Theatre’ in Berlin’s Alexanderplatz in September 1909, the trade press noted its affordable
entrance fees, ‘which, at 30 pfennigs and upwards, made it accessible to all sectors of so-
ciety.’ 19 Davidson’s business strategy proceeded along two lines, setting prices which would
draw the broadest possible public but equipping the theatres in a style that would also attract
the well-heeled spectator. The Frankfurter Adressbuch of 1909 praised the ‘U.T. in the Kai-
serstrasse as the most exclusive and elegant theatre of its kind in Germany’ and one which
‘attained the very highest level in both its technical equipment and its programming.’ 20 With
his strategy of ‘affordable luxury,’ 11 Davidson put pressure on other, smaller cinemas. But it
was not only the drop in entrance fees that characterised the crisis of the film industry in
1909. Arthur Spamer, a political scientist, described the film industry already in 1909 as an
industry of luxury goods, which existed for no other purpose than to gratify the needs which

82 Peter Ldhn

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it had itself created. 22 Despite the huge demand, there were more films on the market than
there were cinemas to show them. Spamer estimated the over-production of films at some-
where in the region of ‘10,000 metres per w eek,’ 23 This surplus of films did not, however,
affect the commercial activities of the AKTG. It had sufficient financial resources at its
disposal to continue investing in the cinema industry and expanding its activities. With a
strong presence in Berlin, the AKTG developed the most important film market in Germa-
ny, and this in a period of market recession,

The expansion of the AKTG, though, could not be wholly financed in its exist-
ing form as a limited company. The partners in the AKTG decided to take the next step and
on 12 March 1910 signed a contract setting up the projection joint-stock company ‘Union’
(PAGU), which was entered in the Frankfurt register of companies. The PAGU expanded
its activities from equipping and running cinematographe theatres to ‘the manufacture and
the sale of films and film apparatus.’ 24 The PAGU therefore became not only the first Ger-
man film company quoted on the stock exchange, but also the first to be involved in the four
vital spheres of cinema exhibition, distribution, film production and equipment manufac-
ture.

The PAGU has a basic capital of 500,000 marks at its disposal, made up of 500
shares at 1,000 marks each. The shares are in the name of the holder and have
been issued at face value (...). The only member of the board is the businessman
Paul Davidson 25

The founders of the company were the Frankfurt businessmen already active in the AKTG,
Wronker, Wiesbader, Bauer and Davidson, as well as a manufacturer from Mannheim,
Heinrich Hellwig. The first board of directors also included Albert Schlondorf, an indus-
trialist from Diisseldorf, and the lawyer and city councillor Max Jeselsen from Mannheim. 26
The AKTG continued to exist as an independent firm for a short period, but was gradually
liquidated from 1911 onwards, winding itself up in May 191 2. 27 In June the PAGU moved
‘its new, greatly expanded commercial enterprise’ to 64 Kaiserstrasse. 28

The PAGU’s initial expansion was in the exhibition sector, concentrating on
Berlin. In 1 910 the PAGU founded five theatres there, with the U.T. at 21 Unter den Linden
setting the standard for high quality in the field. An idea of the increase in audiences at the
U.T. can be gauged from some in-house statistics: in 1910 2.5 million visitors are recorded,
with the figure rising to 6 million in 1912. 29

In Frankfurt, meanwhile, Davidson fought over every single spectator. The rival
‘Hohenzollem Theatre,’ which had opened for business in June 1910, defended itself in a
letter against a lawsuit threatened by PAGU over unfair competition. The bone of contention
was the ‘Hohenzollem’ advertisements in which the cinema described itself as ‘Frankfurt’s
biggest cinematograph theatre’ showing ‘the latest pictures,’ The management self-confi
dently opened its books to prove that it was unsurpassed in Frankfurt in terms of box-office
figures:

83 Paul Davidson

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The best confirmation of the quality of our presentations is the number of visi-
tors to the Hohenzollem Theatre, From 8-17 July - a period of ten days - our
theatre welcomed a total of 6523 visitors, if our records of ticket sates are any-
thing to go by. No other cinematograph in Frankfurt is in a position to make a
similar claim. We are therefore not in the least perturbed at the prospect of legal
action by the ‘ Union ’-Theatergesellschaft.™

It would appear that the ‘Hohenzollem Theatre’ was quicker to adapt itself to new develop-
ments in the marketing and exhibition sector than a vertically integrated company could,
however innovative its overall business strategy. Thus, the cinema sensation of 191 1 - af-
grunden, Asta Nielsen’s first film under the direction of Urban Gad had its first Frankfurt
showing at the ‘Hohenzollem Theatre’:

(...) the Hohenzollem Theatre in the Hohenzollemstrasse, near Bahnhofplatz,
since the middle of last week has been showing the sensational theatre drama in
two acts from Urban Gad, entitled afgrunden. If ever a film exerted great pow-
ers of attraction then it is this one (...) We see a lively, exciting, shattering drama
presented in a realistic, purely objective manner which, despite lasting a full 45
minutes, manages to satisfy all the demands made in our hyper-modem age. 31

DEE FR.EMDE VOGEL (1911):

Eugenie Werner, Hans Mierendorff, Carl Clewing, Asta Nielsen, Grete Karsten, Louis Ralph
(from left to right)

84 Peter Ldhn

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The film was in many ways a turning point, also showing the way to a new marketing
concept: the so-called ‘Monopolfilm,’ The Diisseldorf film distributor Ludwig Gottschalk
had purchased the exhibition rights and with it pushed through the new distribution system,
based on granting an exhibitor ‘monopoly’ or exclusivity for exploitating a given film with-
in a specified territory. 32 Even if PAGU was left standing in this case, it profited from the
new distribution policy. At the same time as afgrunden, Davidson was marketing his own
monopoly film, the American boxing title fight Johnson vs. jeffries, which was shown in
both the ‘Boulevard Theatre’ on the Kaiserstrasse and in the ‘Sound Picture Theatre’ on the
Zed. 33 For Davidson this much-advertised sports attraction was an attempt to test the effec-
tiveness of the monopoly film as a distribution concept. The results convinced him, and
from then on, PAGU wanted to enter distribution and especially production, but in style. He
was looking for an opportunity to translate the quality formula of his film theatres into the
production sector, and Asta Nielsen seemed made for it. On 1 June 1911 Nielsen and Urban
Gad, with Paul Davidson as senior partner, formed the ‘International Film Sales Company,’
which ensured the European-wide exploitation of the Asta Nielsen/Urban Gad films. David-
son has described how he came to make this crucial decision for the economic prosperity of
PAGU:

(...) I had not been thinking about film production. But then I saw the first Asta
Nielsen film. I realised that the age of the short film was past. And above all I
realised that this woman was the first artist in the medium of film, Asta Nielsen,
I instantly felt, could be a global success. It was ‘International Film Sales’ that
provided ‘Union’ with eight Nielsen films per year. I built her a studio in Tem-
pelhof, and set up a big production staff around her. This woman can carry it (...).
Let the films cost whatever they cost. I used every available means - and devised
many new ones - in order to bring the Asta Nielsen films to the world. 34

PAGU developed into the most prestigious production company in Germany. The contract
with Asta Nielsen involved 24 films, divided into annual series. The first series met with
huge acclaim and succeeded in setting the aesthetic standard that raised filmmaking to the
status Davidson had aimed for. But the commercial success of PAGU’s policy also dis-
tanced the company increasingly from Frankfurt. All decision making of any importance
took place in Berlin, and at the end of 1 912, PAGU relocated its head office. In a brief report
in a trade paper, one finds the matter-of-fact statement that ‘this relocation comes in the
wake of a further expansion of the company and the setting up of a film factory, A branch
office will be maintained in Frankfurt am Main.’ 35

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Munich’s First Fiction Feature:

DIE WAHRHEIT

Jan-Christopher Horak

While Berlin was the centre of the German film industry in the first half of the 20lh century,
Munich could after 1919 claim the title of Germany’s second city of cinema. The GeiseL
gasteig Studios and the Stuart Webbs Atelier in Griinwald, the Arnold & Richter Studios in
Schwabing, as well as other production facilities, turned out a steady stream of films
throughout the twenties, thirties and forties. In the post- World War II period, Munich’s Ba-
varia Studios in Geiselgasteig actually advanced to West Germany’s most important produc-
tion centre, when most of the Berlin studios were taken under Russian control in 1945, and
later turned over to the Defa, True, the great silent German expressionist films and the 1920s
classics by Lang, Mumau, and Lubitsch were shot in Berlin, but Munich produced its share
of historical epics, including sterbende volker (1921, Robert Reinert), monna vanna
(1922, Richard Eichberg), Helena of troy (1923, Manfred Noa), Waterloo (1928, Karl
Grune), ludwig II (1929, Wilhelm Dieterle), Stuart. Webbs Detective Films, and especially
‘Heimatfilms,’ including der ochsenkrieg (1920), die geierwally (1921, E.A. Dupont),
the mountain eagle ( 1 926, Alfred Hitchcock), and der weiberkrieg ( 1 928, Franz Seitz).
If Berlin had its Ufa Konzem, Munich had the ‘Emelka-Konzem’ (founded in 1918 as the
Miinchner Lichtspielkunst A.G.), which like Ufa, evolved into a horizontally and vertically
organized film company, including production, distribution, exhibition, studios, and labora-
tories. Until the mid-twenties the guiding light behind the M.L.K. or ‘Emelka’ was Peter
Ostermayr, like Oskar Messter one of the forgotten pioneers of German cinema.

Bom on 18 July 1882 in Munich, Ostermayr had inherited his father’s photogra-
phy studio, but soon branched out into motion pictures: in 1907 he and his brother Franz
(later known as Franz Osten) founded an itinerant film projection company (Wanderkino),
called the ‘Original Physiograph Compagnie.’ When a nitrate fire and poor business put an
end to the venture, Peter and Franz Ostermayr turned to an activity closer to their roots,
making films, all the while continuing their photographic portaiture business. In 1908, they
began producing a series of ‘scenics’ of Munich and the Bavarian countryside and actua-
lities of current events, which they sold to Gaumont, Pathe Freres, Eclair, and Messter. A
year later, Ostermayr founded the Miinchner Kunstfilm Peter Ostermayr, converting a por-
tion of his roof-top photography studio in Munich’s Karlsplatz into a film studio. 1

Then, in 1910 Ostermayr directed his first fiction film, die wahrheit (‘The
Truth’), which, however, was never commercially distributed. Just why this fdm was never
released is unclear; there are no censorship records and no press reports. Like much of
Munich’s early film history, this film has been the subject only of anecdotal narratives.

86 Jan-Christopher Horak

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while little rigorous historical research has appeared. This essay cannot fill the gap, but it
will attempt to read ‘against the grain’ two of the few original sources available, an unpub-
lished autobiography of Peter Ostermayr and the film itself, 2 in order to reach some tentative
conclusions about the state of the early German film industry in Munich.

In 1910 the German film industry was at the cusp of a major breakthrough which
in a few short years would lead to the founding of Ufa as a major player in the European film
industry. Even though French film companies, like Gaumont and Pathe, supplied the major-
ity of films screened in German cinemas at this time, German film production was beginning
to expand, as cinemas continued to sprout up everywhere. In Munich alone, the number of
cinemas doubled between 1910 and 1913, reaching a total of over 50 (Berlin had three times
as many in the same period). Meanwhile, Paul Davidson, founder of the largest German
cinema chain, established the Projektions A.G. ‘Union’ in 1910, enlarging his exhibition
operation to include distribution and film production. In 1912, he signed an exclusive con-
tract with the Danish actress Asta Nielsen, soon to become Europe's most popular actress.

While in 1910 only four major companies produced films in Germany, the Deut-
sche Mutoskop- und Biograph, the Vitascope GmbH, Duskes Kinematographen und Film-
Fabriken GmbH, and Messters Projektion GmbH, several important companies were found-
ed in the next two years, including the Projektions- A.G. ‘Union’, the Continental- Kunstfilm
GmbH, and the Eiko Film GmbH. 3 The expansion of Berlin’s industry appears even more
dramatic when considering smaller companies: while at the beginning of 1909 there were 28
production companies, the numberhad increased to over 70by 191 1. 4 In 1912theBabelsberg
Studios were built by the Bioscope Film Company, and a year later the Vitascope Studios at
Weissensee (later purchased by Joe May) were constructed. It is indicative of the state of
affairs that while all this activity was going on in Berlin, Munich was just taking its first steps
towards becoming a production centre. In his autobiography, Peter Ostermayr writes:

As already mentioned, the era of shooting interiors on open air stages had
passed. Films were now produced in glass houses, usually empty photography
studios. I had a photo studio, even if it wasn’t empty. Initially, the littler studio,
used for film developing, would have to do. So I had a glass house and a camer-
aman, myself... The littler studio was cleaned out. Using background flats from
the photography studio, I had sets painted. The door was cut out of canvas and
stretched over a frame. No matter if it vibrated when being open and closed, that
also happened in the films we projected in the ‘Physiograph Comp.’ 5

Thus, while in Berlin film companies had begun to build huge free-standing glass studios,
specifically designed for film production and capable of enclosing large sets, Ostermayr
was merely setting up a roof-top studio, the kind that had been in existence in Berlin’s
Friedrichstrasse since before the tum of the century. 6

Ironically, Ostermayr could just as well have shot his film in a warehouse, since
he goes on to describe his efforts to darken the studio by placing drapes outside his glass roof.

87 Munich’s First Fiction Feature

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Leaving them inside the windows would have made them visible in the frame. Furthermore,
he was only able to hang his six newly acquired arc lights in a row from the highest point of
the glass roof, since they, too, would have been visible in the frame in any other position. The
actors were thus exposed to strong lights in the centre of the studio, but light levels fell off
significantly at the edges, forcing Ostermayr to stage all his action centre frame.

Finding props for the backstage scenes was relatively easy, since Ostermayr ’s
photography studio was equipped with numerous backdrops for the genre portraits popular
at the time. Ostermayr used personal furniture from his home for the set for the doctor’s
office. The improvised set decorations saved Ostermayr the cost of hiring an art director,
However, as Ostermayr admits, he had failed to keep abreast of the times. His sets looked
cheap and old fashioned, when compared to the newest films coming from Berlin; ‘The
Berlin productions had not stood still, just as the development of the dramatic films made
great leaps forward from month to month, even from week to week.’

Once shooting began with his crew of stage actors, none of whom had ever ap-
peared before a movie camera, Ostermayr had to send the rushes to Berlin to Pathe’s labora-
tories, since Munich was still without a motion picture lab. Given the cost of raw film stock,
Ostermayr could not afford to shoot each scene more than once, having previously re-
hearsed the scene with the actors. 7 After each day’s shooting, Ostermayr worried about the
quality of the exposed material, until the lab confirmed that the negative was printable. The
film was completed in six days at a cost of 900 Reichsmarks. 8 It had a length of 490 metres
and was edited by Ostermayr himself.

With the finished film in his luggage, Ostermayr took the first train to Berlin, in
order to screen it for some representatives of Pathe’s German distribution company, and
hopefully make a sale. According to Ostermayr:

After the lights were turned on, I looked at my ‘buyers’ with a nervous grin. I
was ready for anything. The gentlemen, there were six against one, praised the
photography in particular. Oh, that was medicine for my wounded heart. The
acting, too, was not bad, but the sets left much to be desired! They were out of
date. A half a year earlier they would have been fine, but considering the films
that had since appeared... 9

To make a long story short, Ostermayr did not make a sale. In fact, he never sold the film,
although apparently a Munich film distributor was interested in buying die wahrheit sight
unseen. But Ostermayr was too proud to confess that he had been rejected by the world-
class competition in Berlin, and told the interested parly that he was close to making a deal
in Berlin. Ostermayr chalked up the experience as an apprenticeship exercise and shelved
the film, having first received the blessings of his co-financier.

If this autobiographical narrative is in any way true, then it contains at least one
lesson for historians of early cinema. While much emphasis has been placed on the develop-
ment of film techniques, especially camerawork and editing, little attention has been paid to

88 Jan-Christopher Horak

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advances in art direction. Yet, as this anecdotal account makes clear, art direction was an
important criteria of value in an expanding film market. Like the Hollywood film moguls of
the next generation of film manufacturers, early producers were very cognizant of making
every mark, franc, or dollar visible on the screen. This was especially true in this transition
period from film d’ art (which still made do with painted sets) to the Autorenfilm , i.e. be-
tween 1908 and 1912.

It must also be pointed out that, as Corinna Miiller has noted, the expansion of
German film production had led to an oversupply of films. Quoting Die Lichtbild-Buhne she
writes: ‘The sales chances of an individual producer were thus limited, because, as was
noted in 1911, “the individual film distributor today can consider only a limited number of
film producers when selecting a weekly program.’” 10 Of the approximately one hundred
new subjects available weekly, thirty to forty percent could not be sold." It is therefore not
surprising that Ostermayr, as a novice film producer, was unable to find a buyer for die
wahrheit. Significantly, after the failure of die wahrheit, Ostennayr’s second film, mu-
sette (1912) was banned by the Munich police. 12 His first successful film was not complet-
ed until late 1913: ach, wie ists moglich denn premiered at Munich’s Sendhngertor Cin-
ema in the presence of ‘the cream of society.’ 13 Indeed, it was not until the post-World War
1 period that Ostermayr’s production companies began producing more than a handful of
fiction films a year.

die wahrheit tells a simple story, Karl Wolter, a successful theatre actor, begins
to lose his sight. He is treated by a doctor who is loathe to tell the actor he will become
competely blind. Instead, he writes a letter to the theatre director, asking him not to fire the
actor due to his illness. The actors ’s fiancee, the actress Inga Lara, leaves him, sinking the
actor into a deep depression. In order to learn the truth about his condition from his doctor,
he invents a ruse: he puts on a beard and poses as his own father. He commits suicide when
the doctor confesses the truth.

Looking at die wahrheit today, the film seems not nearly as bad as one might
believe, given Ostermayer’s account. In fact, compared with similar efforts in Germany and
Scandinavia, the film is definitely a respectable first effort. Certainly, the film has its de-
fects. Common to all early cinema, the film’s continuity does not conform to classical nar-
rative modes of address. For example, the scene in which the actor walks across a city street
and is nearly killed by a passing car was shot twice and is shown back-to-back (in the first
take the driver shoots out of frame before coming to a stop to scream at the actor, as seen in
the second take). This doubling of action was not uncommon in the very early days, but by
1910 was certainly considered a ‘mistake.’ In two different spaces an insert and intertitle,
respectively, are cut into the film prematurely, well before, rather than during, the action
they refer to. Finally, the shots continue long after the central action in the scene has been
completed, again a not uncommon occurrence in early cinema.

Then there is the matter of sets. The interior sets in the opening scenes at the
theatre are obviously painted backdrops. Not having the funding for filming in a real theatre

89 Munich’s First Fiction Feature

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Street: Car accident

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Pagliacci

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Theatre

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Doctor’s office

with an audience, Ostemiayr relies on a shot, reverse shot construction to show the actor
performing Tagliacci’ and his adoring fiancee in a box watching him. The doctor’s office,
too, is only sparsely decorated. What makes the painted sets all the more obvious is that
Ostermayr shoots several other scenes outdoors: the actor leaving the doctor’s practice and
nearly being run over by a motorcar, two scenes in front of the stage entrance, the actor
sitting in a park, and a confrontation scene between the actor and his faithless fiancee in her
garden. Furthermore, all the interior scenes are extremely cramped and staged centre frame,
due, as noted above, to the small size of Ostermayr ’s studio and the position of his arc
lamps. As a result, virtually all the scenes are constructed as static, two-person confronta-
tions, with the only movement coming from characters moving forward or backward
through a door at stage centre.

One can argue, however, that such a mise-en-scene would soon become conven-
tional as melodrama, and indeed, die wahrheit can be analysed as a male melodrama.
Thus, Karl Wolter’s illness can be read as a kind of male hysteria, brought about by a fear of

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Garden of fiancee

91 Munich's First Fiction Feature

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castration. In fact, as a man he can never live up to the great roles he plays on the stage. It is
significant that the actor celebrates a triumph in the role of Pagliacci, a character who is
indeed ‘castrated’ by his actress-wife’s infidelities. And if to confirm the narrative on stage,
it is his blindness off stage that precipitates his fiancee’s infidelity: *1 loved him as a great
actor. Now he means nothing to me,’ Two more scenes signify his symbolic castration.
Unbeknownst to Wolter, it is the actress who is sitting in the car that almost runs him down,
while in a later scene in her garden, he is powerless when confronted with her new lover.
Finally, however, it is his prowess as an actor which allows him to play his last role, in order
to find out the truth of his condition. Unable to cope with both the loss of his professional
stature and his fiancee, and facing a future as an invalid, Wolter commits suicide. It is his
last act of free will.

No doubt, this first fiction feature by a Munich film production company will
remain a footnote to the history of the German film industry. It took the closing of Germa-
ny’s border and the concomitant elimination of the French competition to give Munich the
boost needed to establish a functioning film industry. By 1918 several film producers were
at work in Munich, including Peter Ostermayr’s Munchner Kunstfilm, Moewe Film, Bayer
ische Filmindustrie A, Ankenbrand GmbH, Rolf Randolf-Filmgesellschaft, Jost-Film,
Weiss-Blau-Film, and Leo-Film, Writing a serious history of these companies and their
production will be the next step in filling a gap in the history of German cinema.

92 Jan-Christopher Horak

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Moving Images of America in
Early German Cinema

Deniz Gokturk

The better movie theaters showed mostly American pictures. How we laughed at
funny, fat John Bunny and his jokes! Although we saw a lot of French films as
well, Pat he- films with Max Linder and little Fritzchen Abelard, for example,
nothing had the dramatic tension and nothing suited our youthful fantasies better
than the American films of that time. 1

For George Grosz and his friends America was a thrilling imaginary space which they knew
from the adventure novels of their childhood - Grosz told of copying by hand as a boy of
nine a whole volume of James Fenimore Cooper’s Leatherstocking Tales - and which they
found revived in the movies. They would dress up as urban cowboys at studio parties, por-
tray themselves in American style, or even Americanize their names, and they frequently
depicted American scenes in their sketches and paintings, which drew on the realm of ad-
venture novels and movies, providing them with fantasies of liberation and escape from the
narrow world of a small town upbringing. At the same time, these works were interspersed
with reflections of fife in the urban jungle. The violent features of the shady individuals
populating a typical frontier town were grounded with impressions of crime and violence in
wartime Europe, where streets, cafes, and cinemas were full of soldiers and prostitutes. 2

The overwhelming experience of global industrial power, culminating in ‘nation-
al conflicts’ and wars, pours out in a cascade of hasty, fragmentary exclamations. This futur-
istic whirl is, however, permeated by a counter movement of archaic imagery. Irrational
forces undermine the rationalised American business world: the engineers reveal themselves
to be ’black magicians in American smokings.’ Grosz associates the engineer, the paradigm
of the industrial, techno-rational world, with the figure of the gold-digger. 3 The modem
embodiment of control and power is thus blended with the qualities of a pre-industrial type
of adventurer. This amalgamation can also be observed in the sketch Der Goldgrdher from
1916. The gold-digger is an adventurous-looking sailor, decorated with tattoos, a necklace,
a pistol and a knife. He stands in the midst of a waste landscape with a spade and a pipe in
his hands. A whisky bottle and a morphine syringe point to an urban underworld. In the
background lies a dock area, where at the centre of a row of houses the inscription ’Cinema’
jumps right into the eye - the locus of origin for those adventurous scenarios.

German reactions to early cinema often tended to be interwoven with utopian or
dystopian projections of America. The films from the United States transmitted fascinating -

93 Moving Images of America in Early German Cinema

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ly immediate impressions of American scenes which were understood as being more ‘au-
thentic’ than the information which any of the print media had provided hitherto. At the
same time, current writings of American lifestyle still provided the backdrop against which
these new pictures were perceived. Throughout the political spectrum, America served as a
highly ambivalent symbol which contained both the fascination and the anxiety caused by
rapid modernization in progress on both sides of the Atlantic. Many elements fundamental
to German notions of America as a model for modernity and a good deal of the cultural
hierarchies still defended today crystallized in the early 20th century around the rise of the
new mass medium film. Whereas for conservative critics ‘Schreckbild Amerika’ served to
explain everything they abhorred about the emerging mass culture, the identification of film
with America was also used in a positive sense. In 1913, the writer Walter Hasenclever
wrote an apology for the ‘Kintopp’:

The ‘Kintopp’ remains American, ingenious, and kitschy. There lies its popular-
ity and its success. And no law passed in the Reichstag will prevent the Kintopp
from making good profits, because its modernity lies in its ability to satisfy in
equal measure both idiots and ‘brains' - according to their psychological struc-
ture. 4

What was admired about American film was its down-to-earth and concise style of narra-
tion. In 191 1, Karl Hans Strobl, a writer of adventure novels, characterized cinema as ‘the
atre in top speed 1 to which ‘the American principle’ of ‘the whole ox in the stock cube’
applied. ‘The hasty, nervous pace’ of this new art which was like ‘an automat restaurant of
visual pleasure’ suited ‘the tension of our life’ best, as ‘everyone knows how hard it is to
listen to one of those endless Wagner operas at the end of a working day.’ s

Prior to World War I, Germany was largely a film importing nation. As Kristin
Thompson has showm in her study on distribution history, during the years 1912 and 1913
approximately 30% of the dramatic films released on the German market came from the
USA. The American film industry thus held the top position ahead of other exporting coun-
tries like France and Italy. 6 Emilie Altenloh’s pioneer study on audience sociology of 1914
confirms these figures. 7 Although the outbreak of World War I led to a closure of the nation-
al market, imports of foreign films never ceased completely. 8 Foreign films still made their
way to Germany through the neutral countries like Denmark or the Netherlands. Censorship
entries reveal that American films produced by Kalem, American Biograph, Selig, Tann-
houser, or Carl Laemmle’s IMP were still imported into Germany because the USA re
mained neutral until 19 17. 9

The cultural significance which American films came to carry upon entering the
German context becomes evident in the variety of appropriations and transformations of the
Western theme throughout cultural spheres ranging from ‘high art’ to ‘pulp’. The Western
was one of the first internationally popular genres in film history. By 1908, its locations,
plotlines and characters were already codified. 10 The genre emerged at a time when the

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George Grosz,
The Golddigger
(1916)

American West was being romanticized by young Easterners like Theodore Roosevelt, the
painter Frederic Remington, and Owen Wister, the writer of the first prototypical Western
novel The Virginian (1902). 11 Around the same time, Edwin S. Porter filmed the great
train robbery (1903) for the Edison Manufacturing Company and established the basic
Western formula of crime, pursuit, and punishment. 12 Lewis Jacobs called this first narrative
Western the ‘bible of all directors' because of its new technique of cross cutting parallel
lines of action. 13 In the following years, the great train robbery had great success in the
nickelodeons and was followed by a number of remakes. In Germany, too, it was shown
with titles like der grosse zuguberfall or der uberfall auf einen amerikanischen
expresszug. Since 1894, the Edison Manufacturing Company had European representa-
tives, first in London and from 1906 also in Berlin.

Broncho Billy Anderson alias Gilbert M. Anderson (that is Max Aronson, 1 882-
1971) played the passenger who is shot by the bandits in the great train robbery - one
of his first film parts. In 1907 he founded the production company Essanay together with
George K. Spoor and created the coarse cowboy Broncho Billy who appeared for seven
years in a series of more than 350 films. 14 Broncho Billy’s name figured in every title as a

95 Moving Images of America in Early German Cinema

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trademark. He was a star, before the film industry established the Hollywood star system.
His team produced about one film a week in California. The films did not add up to a series
with a continuous plot line. Each film was a self-contained short drama. Broncho Billy
played different roles, sometimes he was the villain, sometimes the sheriff, but mostly a
good bad man , a tough guy with rough skin and a soft heart - a type that would be further
developed by William S. Hart and other screen cowboys.

Many of the Broncho Billy films were also shown in Germany. Essanay estab-
lished a representative in Berlin in 1911. Local police headquarters were responsible for the
censorship of films. From 1912, the decisions of the censors in Berlin and Munich became
a guideline for other regions as well. However, censorship and distribution in different cities
were still very inconsistent at that time, as can be seen in the censorship entries. 16 Violent
scenes generally tended to be cut. However, the cinema reform movement complained that
the bans were frequently ignored. In any case, the censorship entries give evidence of the
widespread distribution of Broncho Billy films.

David Wark Griffith started his career just like Broncho Billy Anderson as an
actor for the Edison Manufacturing Company, From 1908 to 1914, as a director for the
Biograph Company, Griffith produced around 450 films. Many of these one- to four-reelers,
for example, his early Westerns like leather stocking (1911), the lonedale operator
(1911), THE LAST DROP OP WATER (1911) or THE GIRL AND HER TRUST (1912) made their
way to Germany, as documented by German censorship entries. 16 the battle at elder-
bush gulch, which shows an elaborate use of cross-cutting technique and culminates in a
thrilling last minute rescue, was released in Germany in November 1913 - four months
before it was released in the USA. 17 American film producers were concerned with satisfy-
ing the German market from a very early stage. Business records of the Biograph Company
for the ye ar 1 908 (held by the Museum of M odem Art in New York) carry the entry * German
title cards’ for some films. Apparently, American production companies produced films
with titles in foreign languages geared for particular foreign markets, but unfortunately,
there is not enough material to generalize this assumption. Griffith’s last Biograph produc-
tion judith of bethulia, a historical costume drama of four reels, was presented in Berlin
in April 1914 as ‘the greatest triumph of modern film art’, although the director’s name was
yet to become a brand name and therefore was not mentioned in the trade journal’s advertis-
ing. But the two films which made him famous, the birth of a nation and intolerance,
were not released in Germany until 1924.

The romantic visions of the American West presented by the movies had always
been nostalgic reconstructions of a bygone past, rather than representations of contempo-
rary reality. The formalized sets and plots of the Western could easily be transferred to other
countries. In fact, ‘Spaghetti’ and ‘Sauerkraut’ Westerns were being produced parallel to
the import of American productions from a very early stage. In France, Eclair produced
the Arizona Bill series starring Joe Hamman as early as 1908. In Germany as well, there
were appropriations of the genre already before World War I. Some titles and film

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descriptions can be traced in the trade press such as der pferdedieb. drama aus dem
wjlden westen (dir. Viggo Larsen, prod.: Vitascope Berlin, 1911) or wild-west-roman-
tik. drama aus dem wilden westen (prod.: Deutsche Bioscop, 191 1). The films, howev-
er, have not survived.

Western scenes were also integrated as episodes into globe-trotting adventure
films. In the studios of Deutsche Bioscop in Babelsberg, evinrude. die geschichte eines
abenteurers (1913) was produced by Stellan Rye as director, Guido Seeber as photogra-
pher, and Hanns Heinz Ewers as script writer - the same team who had one month before
completed der student von prag. heimat und fremde, produced in 1913 by Projek-
tions-AG ‘Union’, also displayed a whole spectrum of adventurous settings: ‘Officers, ac-
countants, cowboys’ all made their appearance in an European metropolis as well as in
Chicago and the Wild West, The well-known stage actor Emanuel Reicher and his son
Ernst, who was soon to become famous as star-detective Stuart Webbs, acted in this film
directed by Joe May. 18 In the same year, Harry Piel directed menschen und masken (Part
II), produced by the Vitascope Berlin, starring Hedda Vernon and Ludwig Trautmann,
which also treated the Wild West as one episode in a series of global adventures. The episod-
ic structure survives in die jagd nach der hundertpfundnote oder die reise um die
welt, a film of the ‘Nobody’ series which was also produced in 1913 in Berlin by Karl
Werner, The female detective Nobody follows the hero on his journey around the world
which he undertakes following a bet with his friends to bring back a particular 100 pound
note within three months. At great speed they pass through Cairo, Bombay and Nagasaki to
eventually arrive in a Wild West composed of images familiar from American Westerns.

In those years, the Wild West as a constructed cinematic space also began to
attract German writers. Willy Bierbaum in his review of heimat und fremde took the
‘sceneries of a Wild West made in Germany’ as evidence for the advanced standard and
superb capability of film production. 19 Karl Hans Strobl gave an amusing account of an
disillusioning encounter in an Indian reservation in Wyoming - whether he actually under-
took the journey remains doubtful, The story of his ‘strangest American adventure’ titled
‘The Daughter of the Redskin’ was not published in a literary journal, but in the film trade
paper Lichtbild-Biihne on 25 February 1911. Equipped with moccasins, a folded up wig-
wam, and an interpreter, he set off into the ‘wilderness’ in search of ‘romanticism’ - already
put in inverted commas by himself. Trotting through the forest he is making fun of himself
‘for playing leatherstocking in an Indian reservation.’ But all of a sudden the interpreter
stops, listens, shakes his head, dismounts and places his ear on the ground. While the narra-
tor is still thinking that he must be fooling around to secure a bigger tip, some Black Foot
Indians on the warpath actually appear, and pass by the astonished tourist. Then he notices
an Indian couple in a clearing.

Really, they were holding each other by the hands, looking into each other’s

eyes, they embrace, the young man presses his hand on his heart just like an

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Italian opera tenor. Then he starts telling her something with great gestures, and
it appears to me as if he was trying to persuade her to escape with him. But
although they are less than five steps away from us, I cannot hear a single word,
neither in Indian nor in any other language.

The idyllic scene is interrupted by a ‘dignified old Indian,’ the chief, who drags his resisting
daughter back to the village and marries her off to another man. Strangely enough these
scenes, too, take place rapidly and without a single word: ‘I knew from the literature, of
course, that Indians were very silent people, but I would never have imagined them to be
that silent.’ The lover then proceeds to kill the newlywed groom with a tomahawk and is
then put to torture at the stake. The watching narrator is shocked and grabs his gun to rush to
his help for the sake of ‘civilization.’ But he is stopped by the interpreter: ‘What you do
stupid things? Speckled Opposum will soon be rescued.’ Which happens accordingly. When
the rescued young man with the bride comes galloping towards them, the narrator jumps up
overwhelmed by joy because ‘true love has once again won a victory,’ Just then somebody
shouts: ‘Stop!’ And the whole Indian parly stops. Even the dead arise calmly. The tourist is
aghast.

The chief was grinning with dignity: ‘Oh, we do little spectacle for cinema. We
all be under contract with big white chief of running picture.’ Suddenly, an
American appears, and behind him a huge camera is wheeled on a cart by two
workers. ‘Yes, Mister,’ he says patting my shoulder, ‘and a damned good picture
it will be. A sensational film: The Daughter of the Redskin. In two days you will
be able to see it in Frisco. 20

Unlike former authors of adventure novels, Karl Hans Strobl in his little story does not
attempt to present real or imaginary adventures as being authentic and repeatable. On the
contrary, the disillusioning experience of non-authenticity, the decline of romanticism, and
the marketing of the American West through mass media form the theme of his narrative. In
cinema, the writer loses his innocence and realizes that there are no adventures left in real-
ity. Instead, he focuses on the production of surrogate thrills. In modem times, the hunger
for adventure can only be stilled by staged spectacles, in tourism or in cinema.

Arthur Holitscher in his widely read travel book about the USA also reported on
location shooting in Colorado. He met a Vilagraph team filming heart of a man directed
by Rollin Sturgeon. A romantic scene had to be filmed several times due to technical prob-
lems. Meanwhile Holitscher interviewed ‘Eagle Eye’ who was waiting for his scene: ‘As an
authentic Apache with pigtails he was making 40 dollars a week, without pigtails he would
only make 10. When asked about his squaw, he answered that his squaw was a “fraw” and
came from Leipzig.’ Holitscher took the opportunity to present himself in a photograph in
the company of a Vitagraph cowboy in front of a bizarre looking rock, and went on to praise
the advantages of cinema over theatre, 21

98 Deniz Gokiiirk

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Arthur Holitscher, author of a widely read travel
report Amerika Heute und Morgen (1913) which
had considerable impact on Franz Kafka and other
writers of the time, posing with a Colorado Rock
and a Vitagraph-Cowboy

Only gradually did the Western develop into a male genre where women ap-
peared as subordinate figures. That women held a more significant position in the early
Westerns is also suggested by Emilie Altenloh’s description of the successful formula
which early American dramas always followed. According to Altenloh, there would often
be a woman or a girl at the centre of the action who would defend a log cabin against hostile
Indians, holding out until rescue arrived at the last minute. Along with the rescue usually a
lover of the ‘good boy’ type would appear. 22 Apparently, the Western was not always domi-
nated by self-satisfied male stars. Perhaps even the legendary ‘little salesgirls’ found a role
in the early Western dramas. The screen cowboys with their formalised gestures of power,
control, and self-assertion clearly appealed to compensatory fantasies. While in real life in
modem industrial societies the power of the individual was increasingly limited, imagina-
tion found recourse in the archaic qualities of masculinity. The front or the frontier were the
only places left where a man could prove his strength and manliness.

Although the war would make imports of films from overseas more difficult, and
the supply of fresh Westerns diminished, the Wild West remained a highly fascinating imag-
inary playground, even for writers of ‘high literature." The expressionist author Kasimir
Edschmid wrote his cowboy novella l Der Lazo" (1915 in Die sechs Mimdungen) under the
influence of cinematic experiences. ‘Der Lazo" starts off in an European city and develops
into a fantasy of liberation in the American West. Raoul Perten, a listless youth, rebels
against the orderly and boring life which he is leading with his rich uncle where horseriding
or car racing as experiences of speed are the only breaks from boredom. Suddenly, a bright
poster of a steamer makes him leave everything behind and cross the Atlantic ‘tween decks.
On the way he rids himself of old habits and adopts a new gait and masculine gestures in

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order to be respected in the rough male world. He does not stay long in New York City, but
quickly moves further West by train with the land stretching past him for five days like a
huge screen. The West opens up as an escapist fantasy, but at the same time elements from
home are transposed into the American scenery. Raoul is employed as cowboy on a farm,
heroically resisting the attractions of the farmer’s daughter before fighting in a duel with a
down-at-heel German baron who is also working on the farm. A ritual of proving one’s
masculinity which was common in the European bourgeois society, the hated domain of the
‘fathers,’ is thus reproduced in the Wild West. In the end, Raoul rides off: proud, alone, and
upright. The figure of the lonesome cowboy riding off toward the horizon seems to follow
the composition of a film image.

What was visual pleasure for some was for others a thorn in their flesh. While
the movies carried liberating impulses for schoolboys or apprentices who dreamt them-
selves out of the harsh discipline of their everyday life, respectable citizens did not approve
of the Western craze which had seized German youth. In their campaign against ‘trash,’ the
religiously orientated Cinema Reform Movement (‘Kinoreformbewegung’) was concerned
with protecting women and children from the raw attractions and decadent influences of
‘bloodthirsty’ and ‘obscene’ Westerns or detective films. Youngsters were said to be in dan-
ger of being de-sensitised and criminalised by watching violent films. Konrad Lange, a
professor of art history in Tubingen, was one of a number of voices demanding a national
German cinema unspoiled by foreign influences. He criticised the fact that the owners of
film theatres did not take seriously the laws and regulations which prohibited admitting
children to films which the censors considered harmful. As an example, Lange cited the
showing of rote rache: farmerdrama in 5 akten (‘Red Revenge, Farmer Drama in 5
Acts’) in a Tiibingen theatre. Apparently, the professor was already unpopular enough not to
be admitted to the theatre himself, and the local press refused to publish his rabble-rousing
propaganda. In his book Das Kino in Gegenwan und Zukunft he therefore published a report
written by a student of his:

A wild Indian woman in high head-dress, her face contorted in an animal expres-
sion, is mysteriously prowling around a lonely house in the mountains. Sudden-
ly Bill (the farmer) appears in a narrow pass beneath her with a gun in his nerv-
ous fist. There - the tension is at its peak, raging music lashes the audience’s
nerves — Pitjana captures her victim with a well aimed lasso and strangles him
gleefully while he is tormented by pain. In the last minute his wife comes to his
rescue. Pitjana vanishes, only to reappear a few minutes later, and to stab the
wife. End of act three. The auditorium is illuminated. 1 see a bunch of children
sitting in front of me, A little girl, about five years of age (!), is fighting back her
tears, others remain grave. It seems to have deeply affected these children’s
souls. Perhaps it was the first dead person they ever saw, and they believed it was
all reality... 2 ’’

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Section II

Popular Stars and Genres

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Early German Film Comedy, 1895-1917

Thomas H rand! merer

Like it or not, every version of German film history takes the Skladanowsky Brothers as its
point of departure. Their Wintergarten programme was geared to international variety: the
exotic, the foreign, the grotesque. No German folk dancing here, but Italian country dancing
and Cossack dancing. No horses or dogs performing dressage, but ‘kangaroo boxing’. No
‘Jahn - the Father of Gymnastics,’ but the ‘comic horizontal bars,’ In 1896 they presented
short staged comic scenes, not set at the Munich Octoberfest, but at the Tivoli in Copenha-
gen, not at Berlin zoo, but Stockholm zoo. The scene outside the Tivoli is famous: a group of
pleasure-seekers all bumping into one another, the climax coming when a cyclist - played
by Max Skladanowsky himself - comes zooming out of the back of the screen and mows
down the stumbling, arguing crowd.

Conformist Comedy

The era of variety and circus-based cinema was geared towards the sale of film-copies,
rather than rental. Only very little of this material still exists - in Germany a few fragments
of Skladanowsky, Seeber and others, mostly Messter. More than a decade of film history
remains relatively shrouded in mystery. Attempts to draw conclusions from these few rem-
nants have unearthed two tendencies in German cinema. One was the celebration of the
exotic, the sensational, the unusual: tanz der Salome (1906, first version 1902), die
SCHLANGENTANZERIN (1909), TILLY BEBE, DIE BERUHMTE LOWENBANDIGERIN (1908),
APACHENTANZ (1906), AKTSKULPTUREN (1903), NACH DER RE1TUBUNG (1906). Tilly Bebe,
who toured through Germany with her lions in the years of the Kaiserreich, enjoyed a fame
equal to that of Mae West a decade later. Wherever she appeared, the local press would be
falling over itself to come up with the most tantalising articles. Her combination of animal
trainer and brothel madam had something of both the repressed and the forbidden about it.
TILLY bebe was made relatively late in her career but is perhaps the best example of an
exotic-erotic-escapist tendency which crossed over easily from the general entertainment
industry to cinema.

The development of comedy in German cinema is embedded in another tendency
which can equally be traced back to German popular entertainment and which transformed
a potentially taboo-breaking scene of violence into something affirmative, sociable and hu-
morous. The central role in this process was played by the Messter production. The earliest
surviving example is auf der rennbahn in friedenau (1904), which features the popular
variety performer Robert Steidl and includes a well-tried number based on a classic coup de
theatre. A crowd of spectators, facing the camera, watch an (invisible) bicycle race track.

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bodies and heads swaying and bobbing as they follow the action. Steidl, a comic genius,
weaves his way to the front, past the surging mass. Of course, his weaving turns into pushing
and shoving, with predictable consequences, in a sketch that lasts a mere four minutes.

Messter had the capital, and he could afford to give the public whatever was the
best. His ‘Tonbikler’ showed opera stars singing popular arias, but also presented the top
earner of the German variety industry, Josef Giampietro, with the couplet ‘Komm, Du
kleines Kohlenmadchen.’ Alexander Girardi was featured singing the hackney cab song.
These two Austrians were among the superstars of their day, and they managed to simulta-
neously parody and adroitly embody the age’s official jaunty optimism. Messter’s films
quickly became intertwined with the entertainment industry of his age, and while careful
never to overstep the limits of social consensus, he also set trends. Gerhard Daumann and
Bobby - whose identity remains a secret to this day - became his comic house stars, mer-
icke aus neu-ruppin kommt nach Berlin (1911) seems to be the only early Daumann
film still in existence. The film shows the ways of the world in the big city, with the man
from the provinces an easy prey for the wiles of the metropolis. But appearances are decep-
tive, and the satire is double-edged. While the street scenes function as an objective yard-
stick of comic difference, a scene set in a restaurant exposes the comedy of exposure also as
a verdict on the provinces: the fellow' has no manners. ‘German beer-belly humour,’ as Hans
Siemsen described it in 1923. The formula may be rather harsh, but the point is made.
Daumann, one of the most popular German film comedians of the period, was consciously
marketed as ‘German,’ set against ‘grotesque farces ... and ridiculous buffoonery.’ 7

Messter’s comedy production, with its novel devices, was the German dirty joke
variant of early film comedy. Given the lack of surviving material, these early films can be
studied only by examining the literature. The 1898 Messter’s catalogue itemises the con-
tents of the film DER KAMPF UMS DASEIN:

In the corridor of a hotel we see the door of a guest room and next to it the toilet.
A guest walks into the toilet but at the same moment the gentleman in the adjoin-
ing room appears, also intending to use the toilet. He finds door 00 locked - his
face is a picture of suffering and vexation. Another gentleman appears, wearing
only his trousers, who impatiently knocks on the door. Eventually the first man
leaves the ‘loo just as the two other men are throwing themselves at the door, in
an attempt to break it down. A punch-up ensues, and they bump into the waiter
who at that moment enters, carrying a tray of coffee. The waiter falls over. An
extremely humorous subject, which always causes great hilarity - a first-class
picture. 2

The social-Darwinism of the title (‘The Struggle for Existence’) conceals an all-too-con-
spicuous example of what Freud analyzed in 1905 as anal sadism, and Messter comedies,
from what we know about them, continued the dirty-joke line at least up to 1910. schwieg-
ermutter muss fliegen (1909) is a spiteful mother-in-law joke about the harridan who

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always has to have the upper hand, but finally gets her comeuppance when she tries her luck
with a new technical contraption - the flying machine, bine billige badereise (1911)
typically has a pair of protagonists - a married couple by the name of ‘Beer.’ Mr Beer,
unable to pay the bill at the spa hotel where they have been staying, bets three other gentle-
man at his table 300 marks that he will be the first to find favour with the lady sitting at the
next table. The bawdy game of libertinage backfires when it transpires that the lady in ques-
tion is in fact his own wife. A similar pattern, by which the class aspect of the sketch is
converted entirely into comedy, is discernible in ein gutes geschaft or das verzauberte
cafe of the same year.

Self-exposing Wilhelmine comedies included der rosenkavalier (1911), zu-
VlEL DBS GUTEN (1913) and EIN NEUER ERWERBSZWEIG (1912). In DER ROSENKAVALIER
‘masculine courtship behaviour’ 3 is both acted out and thwarted at the same time. The cocky
troubadour regularly falls foul of the Wilhelmine authorities and in the end is arrested by the
police. In prison, he paints on the walls the roses he never had a chance to deliver. In zuviel
des guten a lady toys with the idea of buying a pug dog. All her admirers promptly turn up
with one. The bourgeois salon is demolished by the invasion of the pugs - a comment on the
masculine mating game as subtle as a bar-room joke. This time, the love token is delivered:
blit with fateful consequences for the recipient, and thigh-slapping merriment for the bearer.
ein neuer erwerbszweig pours its malice on female desire when a marriage swindler
takes advantage of two spinsters.

The situation with Bobby, star of the Messter series, is rather more complicated.
Bobby, who plays opposite Dammann, seems to have been a crafty plagiarist. Of the four
films surviving, at least three appear to be based on French, Italian or English films, bobby
hat hundemedizin getrunken (191 1) is a simple story of quid-pro-quo with fatal conse-
quences. Having swallowed dog medicine, Bobby turns into a barking, yapping canine,
running around on all fours, his behaviour giving rise to all manner of obscenities which
come over as wholly un-German. In fact, there are records of earlier Italian and French
grotesques involving horse medicine and a similar course of events. 4 In bobby bei den
frauenrechtlerinnen (191 1), Bobby dresses as a woman and attends a suffragette meet-
ing. At the end he gets a chance to speak and makes a rousing speech which throws the
women into turmoil. In the heat of the ensuing battle, Bobby’s disguise slips off, and he is
pursued by the furious suffragettes in a wild, cross-country chase. The suffragette gro-
tesque, an authentically English invention, is here given a new twist. The plot of bobby als
aviatiker (1911), unusual for the German cinema, is reminiscent of countless French and
Italian comedies: Bobby builds himself an aeroplane out of useless domestic appliances,
which promptly dives groundwards and crashes. What remains of Bobby - his torso and
limbs having scattered to the four winds - is put in a police station where, with the aid of a
few film tricks, the various parts of his body join up together again. At the end he slips away
quietly. The early comedy bobby als detektiv (1908) is relatively innovative by compar-
ison and has a more comic than grotesque effect.

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aus hines mannes madchenzeit (1912) was a real sensation within Messter
Production. The earliest film starring the great Wilhelm Bendow, its hero tries to get a job as
a maid and performs a thoroughly un-German drag-act as a result. In German cinema trans-
vestism almost invariably serves less as a disguise in order to seduce, than to denigrate and
ridicule the sex thus impersonated. Wilhelm Bendow ’s performance in aus bines mannes
madchenzeit is among the few exceptions. As Heide Schliipmann has shown, the advent
of homosexual and bisexual discourse in the cinema of the Kctiserzeit is significant, 5 A
characteristic of early film comedy is the tendency to stick closely to stage conventions, and
Bendow picks up on this in his coquettish playing to the camera and the audience. Econom-
ic constraints (finding a job to earn a living) transform themselves into opportunities
prompted by desire (playing a role in order to get closer to the object of desire). The disrup-
tion of norms and hierarchies in the world of work allow the problems of everyday life to
invite the pleasure principle. Yet it is not only Bendow who relishes dressing up as a maid
and pestering his pretty colleagues: the manservant, too, has fallen under the spell of the
sturdy young housekeeper sporting facial hair, and even the master of the house sucks up to
the seductive Bendow. For this erotic household to function, it has to maintain itself re-
moved from reality, and both kitchen and drawing room obey the laws of desire. At the end,
however, the reality principle can and must triumph. With the transvestite led away by the
police, Wilhelm ine order once more takes charge.

The institution of marriage took on a central ideological role in traditional bour-
geois society, albeit linking sexuality and economy in often original ways. The view of this
sacrosanct institution in early film comedy, however, shows significant differences com-
pared with films made in other countries. Italy, France, and England specialised in grotesques
which were thoroughly subversive. Marriage tricksters and adulterers were strikingly erotic
and financially successful.'' German film comedies, by contrast, favoured the figures of the
deceived bridegroom and the foiled lover. Whereas in other European countries the illegiti-
mate fulfilment of desire was successful, in Germany it was the failure of legitimate desire
that was deemed to give pleasure to the spectator. While der rosenkavalier, zuviel des
guten and eine billige badereise are variations on the theme of the thwarted lover, the
Bolten-Baeckers films der kukzsichtige willi heiratet (1913) and don juan heiratet
(1909) feature the foiled bridegroom, Josef Giampietro. In don juan heiratet he plays the
converted philanderer with foppish noblesse. The castration of the hero, already announced
in the paradoxical title, transpires in the grimmest way imaginable: his former victims gang
together and hunt Giampetro down. Only the symbolic self-castration of a suicide attempt
can save him from the mob, but it is the State which brings the general affray to an end,
incarcerating Giampetro and his bride - completing the metaphor of marriage as a form of
prison, der kurzsichtige will] heiratet features the hero as the victim of his own vanity.
Without his glasses, his loved one seems the epitome of femininity, but when the bridegroom
finally reaches for his spectacles his only possible course of action is to take flight.

ES war so SChon gewesen (1910), with the variety star Arnold Rieck, der

106

Thomas Brandlmeier

Hauptmann von kopenick (1906), with Karl Sonnemann, and Franz Hofer’s hurrah!
einquartierung! (1913) are not products of the Messter empire, but they could be called
the first examples of the German military film and may further illustrate the relative conven-
tionality of many German film comedies compared with their international counterparts, es
war so schon gewesen centres on the erotic dream of a young recruit. In the film the
bullied soldier transforms into a slave-driver, but his victims are the women who show off
their sturdy thighs during a march. As the meting out of punishment reaches its peak, the
recruit, as expected, is brought back to the reality of the barracks with a bump, in the form of
his sergeant, der Hauptmann von kopenick - already in its time a remake classic - was
staged in 1906 by the staff of an engineering firm which also produced films. This version
has at least the charm of mimetic enactment: we watch subordinates having fun showing the
comic potential of being a subordinate, hurrah! einquartierung!, a very early example
of female transvestism, also shows the extent to which the male domain of the military
provides the perfect setting for dressing-up and cross-dressing.

An underlying sense of violence pervaded the German Empire, at least from the
Customs Union (1844) onwards, producing its own effects in the arts and the theatre. In
comedy, it gave rise to the dialectic of the German north-south divide, behind which was
hidden the real dialectic of (economic) progress and regression. Secretly, the farmer wants
to be a city gent, the craftsman an entrepreneur, and the grocer a businessman. Comedies
drawn from the problems of these status-seekers manifested the comic in inappropriate
forms of craftiness and underhandedness. If farce were in demand in German- speaking
countries outside Germany, 7 eloquence and puns dominated the enlightened forms of Ger-
man popular comedy. In this respect the film comedy of the Kaiserzeit is informative about
geographical stratification and linguistic differentiation, wie bauer klaus von seiner
KRANKHEIT GEHEILT WURDE (1906), MERICKE AUS NEU-RUPPIN KOMMT NACH BERLIN
(191 1), EINE BILLIGE BADEREISE (1911), EIN CUTES GESCHAFT (1911) and HER KURZSICH-
tige willi heiratet (1913) are all examples of films which depend for their effects on
spoken titles and the lecturer’s commentaries. The near-incomprehensibility in their ab-
sence of the social types and situations portrayed exemplify the actors’ reliance on wordplay
and the explanatory dialogue to give their characters full depth.

It was thus only with the arrival of the sound film that the German cinema really
took to the star performers of variety theatre and cabaret, who in silent films were often
merely the token icons of their stage selves, underlining the fact that because of the empha-
sis on the pun, there is relatively little evidence of physical forms of comedy. In the typology
of comic heroes, two basic forms can be distinguished: the ‘August’ or fool, and the white
clown. The ‘August’ is the infantile, polymorphously perverse anarchic clown; the white
clown, by contrast, draws his comedy from the battle with objects and social values, from
which he usually emerges with dignity. 8 German comic traditions seem to prefer the white
clown: a result of the tendency towards enlightened, domestic comedy which ties in with the
predominance of punning over slapstick. On a social scale of rebellious manservant to ridic-

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m/t

Hanoi Wcisse

ulous gentleman, the German tradition tends towards the comedy of the well-off fop; on a
libidinal scale of undomesticated, willful child to duty-bound, inhibited adult, the German
tradition seems to side with the weight of fact, acknowledging the reality principle.

Of particular interest in the context of this conformist comedy is the Him die list
der zitiAKETTEN mach HKtN (1916), w r ith Wanda Treumann. This film comedy is the ideo-
logical counterpart to the melodrama die tragodif, ftnes streiks, a Messter production
from 1911, directed by Adolf Gartner and starring Henny Porten. In the Porten melodrama
a strike cuts off the electricity supply to a hospital, just as the child of one of the strike leaders
lies on the operating table. The logic of parallel editing results in the reconciliation of the
repentant workers: two divided sets of images push their way towards each other, die list
der ziGARF.TTF.N mach Erin also acknowledges social division, but centres on a young wom-
an w ho cleverly augments her lottery winnings and thereby manages to save threatened jobs
at the cigarette factory. But her capital does not go into buying the factory, but into marrying
the despairing factory owner. In the first film misfortune is the consequence of the refusal to
make a profit (for the bosses). In the second film, profit has to be earned outside the sphere
of production, in order for production to continue. The good fortune of the working-class girl
flows back into the profit-consuming class and so becomes the legitimate good fortune of the

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middle-classes. But with a noticeable difference. In the comedy the ideological resolution
contradicts the logic of the editing; the two settings distance themselves from each other (the
comic mode), before coming together again at the level of the drama.

How Comedies lake Revenge

In contrast to the unshakeable loyalty to the system of the mainstream, epitomised by
Messter’s productions, wie das kino sich racht (1912) is a film of programmatic polem-
ical force. A particularly feared censor is ‘taken for a ride’ by some film people, who per-
suade a young actress to seduce the protector of public morals, while a hidden camera
records him in flagrante delicto. A film presentation, arranged through various forms of
trickery, publicly exposes the hypocrite. This is a case of the new medium of film defending
its right to freedom in selecting images with remarkable confidence, adopting a gesture of
conservative exposure and using it against its creator. It is very likely that Hanns Kraly, one
of the actors, was also an uncredited member of the scriptwriting team. Kitty Derwall, the
liberal actress of this comedy of seduction, played one of a long list of female roles of
thoroughly emancipatory character. 9

In sieg des hosenrocks (1911), Lene Voss, skilfully portrayed by Guido See-
ber, recognises the fetishistic predilection of ‘her’ fiance (Max Obal) for culottes. With great
confidence and authority she parades up and down wearing the breeches. In those days wild
teenagers were known as ‘tomboys’ or ‘scamps.’ They managed to lead satyr wood spirits
by the nose. In Franz Hofer’s rosa pantoffelchen (1913), Dorrit Weixler seduces a
prince (Franz Schwaiger) and in ein nettes pflanzchen (1916) Erika Glassner causes a
decent middle-class household to come apart at the seams. Hanni Weisse as the tangoko-
nigin (1913) causes mass orgies of convulsive paroxysms.

In a category of their own are the Asta Nielsen films. Cross-dressing - in das
liebes-abc (1916) by Magnus Stifter and zapatas bande (1913) by Urban Gad - had a
comic effect w r hich drew entirely upon her many sexual identities, das madchen ohne
vaterland offered her a Carmen role in which she could disguise herself as a man. Enge-
lein (1913) and das versuchskaninchen (1915) are also tomboy rebels, after Bocklin,
but also on occasion with something of the wide-eyed look of a Munch heroine. The double
shading of the comic-grotesque into the horror-grotesque and vice versa was always part of
Asta Nielsen’s artistic innovations. On one occasion she wants to commit suicide. With a
sweeping, tragic gesture she hoists herself up - and a child’s chair remains dangling from
her hand. On another occasion she enjoys an orgy in the dormitory of a young ladies’ board
Ing school, surreal like in Feuillade - Nielsen and Musidora were both women with a Medu-
sa look.

Iconographic memories of variety comedians are also brought back by the bleak
criminal comedy wo 1 ST coletti? (1913), with Hans Junkermann, one of Germany’s for-
gotten comic talents. Junkermann plays a detective who bets that he can remain incognito
for 48 hours. The theatre of disguise and transformation this involves also parodies the

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German cinema’s obsession with the Doppelgtinger: real beards are tugged, and everyone
appears as an imitation of his or her true self.

Lubitsch

In a class of their own are the films directed by or starring Ernst Lubitsch. meyer auf der
alm (1913) appears to be the earliest Lubitsch comedy still in existence. Lubitsch plays
Meyer, a company director from Berlin, holidaying on the Konigssee, Lubitsch’s acting
makes no secret of the fact that this Meyer is no Germanicised Herr Everybody, but a Yid-
dish Meir. Lubitsch’s directorial involvement in the film remains unclear, but everything
points to his signature. Lubitsch/Meyer plays a nouveau riche with no tact or breeding,
taking the morning air far away from his loved ones and the routine of work, but who finally
becomes the dupe of various erotic Alpine adventures. At lirst sight, this could easily be one
of the Messter repertoire. But the actor is Lubitsch, and there is something of the Kraly
touch about the situations. The central impulse of comedians of Jewish origins is almost
always fear, be it fear of a pogrom or fear of the bogeyman. They compensate for this with
their cheekiness, in the same way as the schoolroom joker’s cheekiness compensates for the
other pupils’ fear. Lubitsch the comic actor also existed on this razor-sharp, life-endanger-
ing dialectic; his gallantry with cigars and Lederhosen already pointed towards his later
work.

der stolz der firma (1914) shows Lubitsch as shop assistant Siegmund Lach-
mann, fired because his incompetence led to the shop being demolished. He wants to kill
himself. But then comes a nice turn of events, which clearly refers to Lubitsch: he decides to
first eat something, because dying on an empty stomach doesn’t seem a good idea. After
this, all his plans go out of the window. Instead, he goes to Berlin, where he fraudulently
sells his expert knowledge. It is then only a few short steps on the ladder of fraud from
salesman to son-in-law of the boss. Hofer’s frauef.in piccolo (1914) shows Lubitsch in a
supporting role, the lead roles going to Hofer stars Franz Schwaiger and Dorrit Weixler, as
so often, a tomboy in a Hosenrolle , a woman wearing trousers and impersonating a man.
Robert und Bertram (1915) once again features Lubitsch in a supporting role. The film
follows the pattern of farce mixed with anti-Semitic tendencies. Director Max Mack saves
the film by his casting. The lead is played by Ferdinand Bonn, a pupil of Possart. Lubitsch
and Bonn compete for laughs as if their lives depended upon it and in so doing manage to
raise the plot above the level of farce, als ich tot war ( 1916) is the earliest surviving film
of Lubitsch’s. It deals with an attempt to get rid of, once and for all, the tiresome mother-in-
law, by staging her death. Here Lubitsch was to some extent attempting to work in the style
of Max Linder, but the leaden weight of the mother-in-law plot dragged the piece down
from the comic heights it occasionally reaches.

It was not until schuhpalast pinkus (1916), made in collaboration with Kraly,
that Lubitsch really shone. Sally Pinkus, a sales assistant way down in the ranks of the shoe
shop’s hierarchy, departs from the code of the peeking order with impertinent swiftness. He

110 Thomas Brandlmeier

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Die Lichtbildbiihne, 24 January 1914

sells ladies size 40s as 35s, and his prowess as a salesman wins him huge success. He makes
eyes at the sales girls, but his heart is set on the boss’s daughter. Then, a rich customer
appears on the scene, whom he manages to talk into lending him some money. He becomes
the new boss of the Pinkus shoe emporium. He turns the loan into private capital by marry-
ing the rich customer. For Pinkus, the shoe shop is his very own erotic playground. He
fetishizes his goods to make them more marketable. The way that Lubitsch/Pinkus runs the
shoe shop is an outright perversion of Marx, der blusenkonig (1917) features Lubitsch
once again as a sales assistant. As usual, Sally Katz has his eye on all the shop girls. He
ensnares Brunhilde, the plump daughter of the boss, out of pure routine. But she immediate-
ly wants to get married. The boss misreads the situation as a case of Katz wanting to marry
into the business. He pays Katz off with a partnership in the firm, and the lucky Katz imme-
diately sets off to visit the pretty supervisor of the manufacture department. The fragment
that remains of the film ends with a clear indication of how the plot will develop. Sally licks
his index finger and purposefully presses the doorbell.

wenn vier dasselbe tun (1917) features Ossi Oswalda in her first role. Hanns
Kraly had discovered her as the female imp for the schuhpalast pinkus. Werner Suden-
dorf describes Oswalda as having a sexuality rendered harmless by her child-like image: in
The costume of innocence’ 1 " Oswalda functioned as Lubitsch ’s female alter ego, as he with-
drew to the role of director. Oswalda outshines her partner, Emil Jannings, As one of the
most important comic actresses of the period, she is able to provide something extremely
rare: Berlin slapstick. ‘Even her shapely legs talk like a Berliner,’ as Kurt Pinthus put it. DAS

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Die Lirhfbi/d-Buhne, 12 June 1915

fidele gefangnis (1917) was a Kraly adaptation of Die Fledermaus. Harry Liedtke took
the role of Eisenstein - here called Reizenstein - while the task of playing the director’s
alter ego this time fell to the effervescent Erich Schonfelder. He is sent to prison for three
stolen kisses - more a pleasant change of scenery than anything else for a professional skirt-
chaser."

The cinema of Lubitsch and Kraly demonstrated all the signs of the Wilhelmine
state’s decline, precisely by pointing to where things were heading. Lubitsch presented the
new human type of the twenties - the cocky, successful figure who siphons off the profits of
war and inflation, and regards hierarchies merely as a springboard for his ambitions. He has
no sense of tradition; past and future no longer mean anything to him; he lives for the here
and now. For him, reality and pleasure go hand in hand. The cinema of Lubitsch and Kraly
is corrosive, caustic and pre-revolutionary in nature. 12

Karl Valentin

This pre-revolutionary aspect is particularly true of Karl Valentin’s film debut. The first film
of 1912, karl Valentin’s hochzeit, picked up on the preoccupation of German main-
stream film comedy with the figure of the hoodwinked bridegroom/lover - and did away
with it forever. Valentin’s bride is the fat theatre actor Georg Riickert. Seeing his future wife,
Valentin decides to run aw-ay, but he cannot escape her clutches, and she finally manages to
floor him, uttering the words: 'Now we are one, my darling Karl.’ die lustigen vagabun-
den (1912) and der neue schreibtisch (1914) were based on comic sketches from the
funny papers. The Miinchner Bilderbogen (illustrated broadsheet), its most famous writer
being Wilhelm Busch, was sold worldwide: it was the prototype of the great American
comic tradition. Comic-writers still enjoyed the privilege of writing for what was consid-

112 Thomas Brandfmeier

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ered by the censors as a harmless medium. In his film adaptations Lubitsch intensified the
subversive potential of the broadsheet, die lustigen vagabunden, starring Karl Valentin
as a policeman with a spiked helmet, features two petty crooks who lead the Wilhelmine
system by the nose and, at the end, literally crucify it on a fence,

der neue schreibtisch is without doubt Valentin’s early masterpiece. The film
adopts one of the favourite themes of early film grotesque which had otherwise made a
noticeable disappearance from German cinema: the systematic destruction of the bourgeois
home as an attack on the bourgeois order. The conflict is sparked off by a piece of office
furniture. The new desk which had been specially made to suit the hero’s outsize measure-
ments turns out to be the wrong size. The vision of a human life adapted to office furniture
heralds a life-long annihilation of the self. Valentin expresses his disobedience in the form
of some destructive alterations. Armed with a saw, hammer and chisel he literally demolish-
es the desk. There is something very un-German not only in Valentin’s radical behaviour but
also in his grotesque, comical movements, which place him high up in the ranks of the best
of his profession. Lubitsch and Kraly, and to an even greater extent Valentin, illustrate the
law of action and reaction: Repression engenders not only mass conformism, but also its
radical counteraction and deconstruction.

Otto Rentier

Karl Valentin

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The Spectator as Accomplice in
Ernst Lubitsch’s schuhpalast pinkus

Kars ten Witte

Money and Desire

Most comedies deal with money and desire. The common denominator of both is circula-
tion. Hence, the almost physical urge of film comedies for movement. If for obvious techni-
cal reasons the early camera could not move or pan around, then the objects and the actors
could move around the camera. Comedy depends on rapid and excessive movement, slow
motion in the psychological sense would almost automatically mean a more elevated genre:
melodrama or tragedy. The rapid movement inherent in comedy produces a lot of disorien-
tation and confusion. The space tends to get fragmented, the roles people play tend to lose
identity. The comicality of films depends on deliberate disguise and deception,

German film comedies are very rare, for two reasons. There are materially very
few prints preserved in the archives. Only approximately a quarter of the films produced
before 1918 survived. The rest could vagely be reconstructed from the plot synopses written
by the German board of film censorship, the so-called ‘Zensurkartenf Second: according to
the deplorable state of prints preserved, very little research has been achieved so far on early
silent film, let alone a more detailed study in the film genre. Classical studies like those by
Siegfried Kracauer or Lotte Eisner ignored early film comedies altogether. These are super-
ficial reasons to blame. There are on the other hand innate reasons why so very few film
comedies were ever produced in Germany. Due to the overpowering impact of moral philos-
ophy on genera] aesthetics and the masses of German school-masters volunteering for film
censorship, little attention was given in public to the legitimate pleasures of the poorer
classes in the cinemas. In addition to the prejudiced ban on ‘money and desire’ uttered in
public, there was the aesthetic ban on the mass media which dared to express inhibited or
oppressed sensual energies. When German film criticism emerged, it condescendingly paid
tribute to the ‘literate’ films, the so-called ‘films d’art,’ and passed over ‘illiterate’ comedies
in silence. Comedies admittingly vulgarised the noble sphere in which the circulation of
money and desire was to kept invisible.

This is where Lubitsch steps in. His achievement was to render visible what used
to be hushed over by the elite of screen writers. Lubitsch introduced a new tone and style,
that of abrupt breaking of cinematic conventions. He unfettered oppressed emotional ener-
gies in his characters. He made the music that shook the old petrified conditions. He brought
out the inherent movement by reorganising the traditional stage which he transformed into
an open space.

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His type-cast character in his films before 1916 is a self-made man called Meyer
(being the most common name in Germany, it also was a very common first name in the
Jewish community). Meyer does away with traditional education. Learning Latin does not
help sweeping floors, as the experience of the apprentice in schuhpalast pinkus (1916)
showed. Meyer mocks traditional schooling. His reference to empiricism cuts short all ra-
tional thinking. Reason in Lubitsch’s eyes is just the shortest way between the sensual needs
of a character and their immediate fulfillment. Meyer leaves out all the usual detours,
Christian ethics like ‘No plight, no price.’ He grabs the ‘forbidden fruits’ without asking
permisson. He does not long for adored objects, he simply wants to get them. Meyer’s name
in schuhpalast pinkus refers to the Yiddish slang word ‘Pinke’ which means ‘money.’
One of Lubitsch’s devices is to marry money and desire.

Circular Mobilities : Order and Disorder

To illustrate the way in which Lubitsch developed this technique, I would like to dwell upon
schuhpalast pinkus. Sally Pinkus is a social climber who makes his way from total failure
to total success, Comedy again tends to exaggerate, to push forms into their extremes, and to
cut out the distance between the starting point and the aim. Comedy does not unfold; com-
edy tends to explode, and the director builds his films from dense fragments of fulfilled
moments.

Sally Pinkus is the man whose life-principle is the spur of the moment. The
duties of general order, public conduct, etc. would call for wider perspectives, So he tends to
minimalize his surroundings, his partners as well as his enemies. He is an ally of the given
moment. Therefore, he would not waste his time. He is the victim of his presence, and
paradoxically also the master of the moment. This may be shown in the way Sally Pinkus
conquers space.

Schupalast Pinkus
( 1916 )

1 15 The Spectator as Accomplice

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The film starts with the early morning scene, the ritual of waking up. Sally refus-
es to stand up on time. He rather enjoys the very last moment in bed, and then hastens to
school. His getting out of bed resembles more a battle with blankets than regular, modest
movement. Sally escapes the bourgeois order, he flees his home.

Wherever he appears in public he is bound to throw things into disorder, not
for the sake of anarchy, but for the immediate grip on wanted objects. Lubitsch tends to
form circles which then break up and flee from the centre of the frame towards marginali-
sation. For instance, when Sally climbs up during school gymnastics, he perceives a group
of girls on the other side. The authority of the schoolmaster disrupts the form of this circle.
Later Sally is leaving school surrounded by another group of girls. Suddenly, his father
appears. Struck by this sight, Sally runs away, and the circle of his surrounding group
breaks up.

Lubitsch associates a certain emotional quality with the circular form. In the
circles he (so to speak) assembles an unorthodox, natural form in which human needs can
emerge without being menaced at once. Sally is the only man who succeeds in assembling
circles around himself. Leaving school he joins a bunch of girls at the ice-stand. The girls
feed him, and as a sign of sympathy, Sally is heaped with all their bags. Disorder of needs
and objects rules the scene. Sally visibly enjoys the share of world he just got. He sticks out
his tongue as he does so frequently. It does not seem sufficient to grab the world by all
means of articulated gestures, it needs Sally’s tongue to sense the world and taste it. The
comic device as displayed in this movement tends to tempt immediacy. The fulfillment of
acute desires leaves out further-ranging perspectives. School and work are transformed into
playing grounds where the comical character comes to his senses which he lost in the regu-
lar surroundings. The basic needs of the comical character are sleeping, eating, and loving.
The urge of expressing these needs excludes all ambiguity. Semantics do not interfere. The
gestures articulate bodily needs.

This does not exclude ambiguity in the moral of the story. Lubitsch of course
always revokes the meaning given to the gestures. His choreography even though it reap-
pears on the surface reverses the meaning once it repeats itself. The circular form is not only
broken up by authorities (fathers, schoolmasters) that menace the little powerless character.
Once a boss himself, he tends to be ruthless and bossy. Sally as an apprentice in the shoe-
salon assembled the female sale-assistants around him. Sally presumably told an indecent
joke. The narrator and his audience fused. They became allies for a short moment before
dissolving the circle when the manager abruptly cuts in and chases the sale-assistants off to
work.

Being the boss of the shoe-salon, now called in grandiose style; ‘Shoe- Palace,’
Sally Pinkus inspects his own staff. One by one he cuts short the endless line of his employ-
ees and chases them off to work. He now imposes order where he used to plunge into disor-
der. Sally himself has become part of the movement that cuts into the circles by an abrupt
vertical movement, which used to be the privilege of authority.

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The permanent reversal of once established and taken for granted order in the
social as well as in the aesthetical sense is a comical device Lubitsch never renounced.
When he directed the shop around the corner in 1940, the young apprentice, once
promoted, almost immediately starts pushing around the new apprentice. The idea behind
this mechanical reversing of social roles is to express that social climbing does not imply
moral achievement. Lubitsch ’s comical device again starts from the ground. Ideas people
have and pursue are guided by their interests, and this interest mainly consists in circulating
money and desire. This is what makes a genuine comical character whose field of action
reinvents the gestures of basic needs.

The Spectator as Accomplice

In this process Lubitsch involves his spectators as accomplices who appreciate and share the
view expressed on the screen. The way spectators are drawn into this process is through
anticipation of the narrative. Lubitsch tells the audience what is about to happen on the
screen before his characters realize what’s coming up to them. The narrative, however, is not
conveyed as fragments of a story, but by means of sensual immediacy. The story itself be-
comes fragmented into littler sensual units which then swarm out to catch the attention of
the audience. ‘All our senses,’ wrote the young Marx in his so-called 'Parisian Manuscripts,’
‘fall apart into little theoreticians and collaborate making out one sense.’ The fragmentiza-
tion of interests is reflected in the rare close-up shots Lubitsch inserted in his schuhpalast
P tNKUS. The close-ups emphasize Sally’s sensual interest, for instance, the way he fetishizes
the ladies’ little feet; ‘little’ being the equivalent to ‘tempting’ or ‘beautiful.’ One of the most
unexpected close-ups in this film occurs when the camera pans over the models’ feet assem-
bled in the final shoe-show. Again, in this scene it is the vertical axis which conquers the
space. The ramp on which the show of boots is performed slices deeply into the centre of the
frame. Alt the movements which are conceived to allure sensual interest are channeled on
that ramp. The vertical axis functions as a sort of railway on which our perception glides
into the centre of action.

Cutting in a given frame is a typical device in Lubitsch *s films. Just think of the
ball-sequence in ich mochte kein mann sein (T Don’t Want to Be a Man,’ 1918). In the
background are assembled the masses; dancing, spinning around in circles, when suddenly
an endless chain of waiters cuts in from the foreground balancing champagne and battles to
the background.

The type-cast character in Lubitsch films is a non-character, realizing himself on
the spur of the moment, holding a vulgar grip on the present, upsetting pre-established order
only to re-establish order. Total failure turns out to be total success, This non-character
materializes as his own commodity and publicity at the same time; this character is a perma-
nent promise to live up to his ‘baser’ needs.

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Asta Nielsen and Female Narration:
The Early Films

Heide Schiiipniann

Asta Nielsen’s film debut in 1910 occurred at a time of radical changes in the cinematic
public sphere. As the cinema was leaving behind its connection with travelling fairs and the
variety theatre, where it had originated, it entered into competition with the theatre and
prepared itself to become the mass medium of the 20th century. The Nielsen persona inter-
vened in this process of transformation. She used the return of drama in film in order to
create in the cinema what the theatre had missed out on: to become a place of female self-
determination, where gender relations might be redefined. If, as Jurgen Habermas wrote,
the classical bourgeois theatre had been a place for the ‘self-thematization’ of the bourgeoi-
sie, where it presented and discussed its social existence, emancipated from feudalistic
forms, then this function benefitted only the male and not the female members of the bour-
geoisie. 1 Gender relations remained within the patriarchal system. However, the disruption
of the traditional order of gender and of traditional female role models brought about by
industrialization and urbanisation belatedly generated a social demand, especially among
the female population, aimed at gaining a new self-confidence in gender relations. On this
demand Asta Nielsen was to found her production programme.

With the cinema’s adaptation to theatrical norms, it lost some of its qualities of
showmanship, without thereby simply turning into the site of education and enlightenment
as propagated by the film reformers. Rather, outworn dramatic forms began to develop a
new life in film, becoming worlds of illusion and appearance, where realistic reproduction
technologies promised the audience encounters to match their dreams and nightmares. At
the very threshold, where the classical literary public sphere based on dialogue and the
spoken word met the modem, technological mass public sphere of the dream factory, Asta
Nielsen stood for the attempt to ‘sublate’ the theatre in the cinema, and thus to open the
latter once more to its own repressed tradition of showmanship. By putting her body on
show, the Nielsen persona opposed the illusionistic world of the drama, forcing it to reflect
its changed position. Dramatic action no longer happened in the theatrical space of the
present, where destiny takes place, but in a space of the past, inviting regression thanks to
the accommodating darkness of the cinema. But stepping into the fight of the projector,
which brought the camera’s recorded images onto the screen, the actress stood for the
present - or rather, for the re-present-ation of bourgeois history’s repressed and for a pres-
ence of visual perception which could resist the pull of the past as dream.

This transformation of the public sphere in the cinema - from a space of exhibi-

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tion to a space of the reality of dreams - is directly represented in Asta Nielsen’s films, first
of all, in connection with the fact that she so frequently plays an artiste, and thus thematizes
her own social role. There is a scene, recurring in several of her films, where she makes her
entrance as artiste: in tawdry night-clubs, at the circus, on a theatrical or vaudeville stage. It
is to be found in afgrunden, den sorte dr0m, balletdanserinden, die arme jenny
(1912) and in many other films. All the scenes share one characteristic, namely that they
represent the merger of two visual spaces: The visual space the female artiste shares with the
stage and her audience, and the second space in which we, the film spectators, see stage as
well as audience, but also get a glimpse of a slice of the bourgeois world beyond the perform-
ance. In afgrunden the camera is placed at a 90° angle to the stage and records the female
dancer as well as a part of the ornate auditorium wall at the right, including the heads of some
of the musicians in the orchestra pit. But the camera also records the presence of the firemen
and stagehands among the scenery, who are not involved in the performance; in their pres-
ence the camera mirrors its own (detached) position. A similar construction of space is seen
in den sorte dr0m: however, this time, the camera is even further away, in a back-stage
space leading to the circus arena through a portal framing our view of the audience sitting to
one side, opposite the female artiste, performing astride her white charger. This construction
of space mediates a break between the cinema audience and the audience of the artistic
performance: the cinema audience sees the artist in relation to her audience and thus acquires
the position of a third audience. But it does not remain an indifferent third party (as was the
fireman), because at the same time as it watches the artiste in her show, it perceives itself as
being addressed by her. In afgrunden Asta Nielsen performs her Gaucho-dance not to-
wards the right, where the variety theatre spectators are situated, but by frontally exposing
her body. Moreover, the position of the dancer is closer to the camera than to the first seats
in the auditorium. The suspense generated by Asta Nielsen in this dancing performance
resides, beyond all lewd fantasy, in the difference it opens up between the visual pleasure
generated by the performance of an art, and another, newer kind of pleasure, kindled by the
impression that beneath the artful display, a real, passionately aroused body is moving to-
wards us. The difference of the spaces is recorded by the camera, but only Asta Nielsen’s
acting identifies the second space as that of the cinema audience. She awakens in the audi-
ence a longing for the pleasures of the real, in opposition to those of illusion.

den sorte DR0M, the fourth film of Urban Gad and Asta Nielsen, and the second
after afgrunden to be shot in Denmark, goes one step further in its engagement with the
cinema audience. For the illusion resides not only in the art, consciously demonstrated by
her, it also resides in the reality, which the audience’s unconscious produces all the more
readily by colluding with the technical reproduction of her appearance, den sorte dr0m
opens with the entrance of the female artiste. We see her, from the point of view of the
wings, dressed in a tight-fitting, lustrous black costume and brandishing her little whip,
high astride her horse circling the arena, before she makes her exit towards the camera, a
few of her circus colleagues, two waiting gentlemen, and us. This gradual approach implies

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Asta Nielsen in ballet dan serin den (1912)

at the same time the crossing of a threshold. From the exhibition space of the ‘dream’ to the
space of ‘reality,’ where she encounters two spectators who seek real fulfilment for the
fantasy her performance has stimulated. Here - as in afgrunoen - we come to see a bit of
the female performer’s lived reality, but we ‘see’ at the same time how the fantasy of the
audience returns in this reality. The desire is kindled by the dream she represents and which
is preserved in the publicity poster at the circus entrance and in the artist’s dressing-room. In
one of them, it is the age-old desire for possession, in the other it is the desire for the love of
the woman who produced this dream - a modern love, respecting the autonomy of the
woman.

The first, a banker, takes the female artiste for an object, a beautiful image which
can be bought. The lover, on the other hand, insists on the reality of his dream. He seeks in
her the ‘truth’ behind the image. But at the very moment when he believes to have discov-
ered the true being of the woman, his ow n doubt about what is real is fatally caught up in the
play of appearances. He discovers his beloved stretched out on a chaise beneath the banker’s
mighty body, draws a gun, and shoots. In contrast to the male protagonists, both of whose
desire remains entangled in the image of the woman, the desire of the audience unfolds in
the space between the images - of the dream and the reality.

Asta Nielsen’s acting is always, and not only in scenes of the artiste’s entrance,
in a double register: one is addressed to the other protagonists, a form of gestural (substitut-

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ing for verbal) dialogue, physical, exposing the body to the camera, which stands in for the
physical-erotic relation to the viewer. But just as in her dramatic stage roles, where she
addresses herself to the extra-diegetic epic narrating instance, and not to her partner in dia-
logue, she also does not address herself to the ‘real’ spectator. For when she directs her play
beyond the dramatic space and turns towards the cinema audience, the Nielsen persona does
not suggest a desire to meet the flesh-and-blood spectators in the dressing-room, in order to
let her dreams become reality; rather, she wants to stage an encounter between spectatorial
dreams and their Filmic reality in the auditorium space of the cinema. Through her double
performance register, the Nielsen persona produces in each scene of her films this two-
dimensionality which is so self-evidently presented in the entrances of the female artiste.
The actress becomes the source of an inner montage that defines the face of her films. Only
at first sight do the films of Asta Nielsen follow other early narrative films in the simple
montage principle of successive autonomous scenes. Compared to the structure of classical
drama, however, the paratactic principle carried the day: dramatic action deteriorated to the
level of the episode, with the dramatic performance attaining its significance from the or-
ganisation of individual episodes or the scenic entrances of the actors. In this respect, the
camera seems to subordinate itself to the unities of place, time, and action. But in the self-
contained and static scene before the camera, the actress reflects an ‘other/ situated beyond
the scene. Therefore, beyond the narrative space and time there opens another space in
which the actress begins to act as well. Her acting reveals that the openness of the screen
towards the space of the cinema has replaced the integrity of the stage in the theatre, and that
the theatre’s fourth wall has become the first wall of the cinema. In separating her physical
acting before the camera from the acting within the scene, she leads the film not to an end in
the closure of drama, but to another goal: to make the audience aware of its own existence in
front of the screen.

The prominence such a scenography gives to the central figure is reminiscent of
the Victorian ‘Life Model Slides’ of the Magic Lantern, where the person photographed in
front of a staged or painted background possessed a peculiar presence. Also in the way each
tableau replaces another, the early cinema’s staging mode is reminiscent of the projection
craft of the Magic Lantern, not least because both share superimposition as their most prom-
inent narrative device. For the tension the actress builds up in each individual scene does
not lead to an overall coherence formed by a dramatic curve stretching from beginning to
end, but charges itself through its own repetition from scene to scene. Each film consists of
more or less self-contained scenes, whose temporal sequence is also a spatial order on the
screen. The inner montage of the scene refers to a sequential montage taking place in the
projection space and through the act of projection itself. Although no longer staged by
means of the Magic Lantern’s mechanical device of superimposition, montage remains
in the heads of the audience as a mechanism of continuity. The screen of the audience,
endowed with memory, perceives successive individual scenes as if linked by super-
impositions.

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iM grossen augenblick ( 1 91 1) is explicitly reminiscent of the Magic Lantern
tradition - a film which, in its melodramatic story of a poor mother, takes up this tradition
also at the level of content. The final sequence frequently returns to a shot of a shabby hotel
room, from which the protagonists look through the window at a mansion. While the hero-
ine is waiting in the foreground for the return of the ‘prison guard,’ her husband, the real
drama is going on in the background: a fire breaks out at the mansion. When she sees the
burning building, where her child is, nothing can keep her. For the film spectator, the man-
sion in the window- frame is a picture that comes alive just as it did in the Magic Lantern
show. At the same time, it also brings to life the female protagonist: she climbs out of the
window, in order, so to speak, to ‘enter’ the picture. But this merger of different spaces film
can no longer achieve.

In the cinema, contrary to what happens in the Laterna Magica, it is not only the
projector that establishes the connection between the auditorium space and the screen.
Internal montage, as described above, also puts the film in a determined relation to the
exhibition space. It is the actress who now bears the burden of this linkage, differently
organized in early narrative cinema from what it later became when the viewer was in-
scribed in the film through the camera perspective. The actress is framed by the internal
montage of her entrances on screen, but above all, it is she who produces the tension, to
which the montage gives the form.

Asta Nielsen derives her narrational perspective not from the camera, but from
the cinematic apparatus as historically evolved visual dispositif. In the first years of cinema,
the task of montage fell to the projectionist: whether putting together single-reel films into
a programme, or sequencing the different reels into a film. One could call it external mon-
tage, assembling filmic material into a coherent experience. When this became a technique
on its own with the transition to longer films, the projectionist lost access to montage. Much
later, Andre Bazin emphasized the principle of ‘montage within the frame’ in the sound
films of the forties, contrasting it to the art of montage through editing. 2 The internal mon-
tage of Asta Nielsen’s films, on the other hand, is one which is produced by the actress and
in which the actress’s work does not take montage out of the hands of the cutter at the
editing table, but takes it over from the projectionist, who at just about the same time has to
pass on his practice to the internal narrator. She, instead of the projectionist, becomes the
‘narrator’ of the film: a female narrator, who does not speak above the heads of the audience,
but speaks by establishing a relation with it.

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Melodrama and Narrative Space:
Franz Hofer’s heidenroslein

Michael Wedel

Narrative Space; Questions of Style

If the methodological distinction between a ‘cinema of attractions' and a ‘cinema of narra-
tive integration’ 1 has contributed anything to the understanding of early cinema, it was to
have sharpened one’s sensibility for the manifold ways in which the individual style of a
film mediates transitions and inaugurates differentiations in the cinema’s ‘discursive reality’
among other contemporary forms of cultural production and popular entertainment. The
abstraction inherent in trying to chart these two modes of cinematic practice in the form of
a set of parameters - frontality and direct audience address on the one hand, continuity
editing and the creation of an imaginary diegetic universe on the other - implies a radical
‘openness’ as to the articulation of cinematic space. Its ‘ideal type’ or paradigmatic ‘virtual-
ity’ requires historically grounded re-definitions and specifications, since it is open towards
different kinds of variables: internationally uneven industrial developments, national audi-
ence compositions, genre formations, and pertinent media intertexts.

Confronted with - and responding to - some of the striking stylistic ‘non-syn-
chronicities’ in the international film heritage of the teens, historians have called upon a
number of readily available explanations for the visible ‘delay’ of the German cinema: the
relatively late establishment of domestic film production and the conservative pressures
exerted by the reformist writings of the cultural elite were seen to be primarily responsible
for the phenomenon of stylistic ‘backwardness’ visible in the Autorenfilm, a genre that epit-
omized the German cinema’s Sonde rweg (‘separate development’) well into the twenties:
slow cutting rates, the lack of scene dissection and continuity editing, tableau-like framings
and frontal acting paired with complicated and often contradictory plots seemed to recon-
struct a 19th century theatrical narrative space devoid of spectacle and visual pleasure.

But the (methodo-)logical gaps and improbabilities of this historical narrative
have become ever more evident as archive restorations have obliged scholars to revise their
preconceptions in the face of the stylistic multiplicity that has come to light across the
popular genre films and the versatility of their directors. With the rediscovery of the films by
Franz Hofer in particular, the issue of the German cinema’s backwardness has had to be
rethought. 2 His idiosyncratic use of cinematic space in a series of popular genre films pro-
duced in 1913/14 (during the period that was to have been the heyday of the Autorenfilm )
proved that German directors were indeed capable of matching international standards of
narrative filmmaking. On the other hand, Hofer’s ambiguous construction of a narrative
space via the use of masking and silhouettes, close-ups and point-of-view shots, frontality

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and direct address, internal montage and shot composition reveal a stylistic paradigm radi-
cally different from either American standards of continuous narration, or the immobile
'theatricality’ of national quality productions, be they French or German. Indeed, the ele-
gance and originality with which Hofer’s visual space of ‘attraction ist ' devices is integrated
into the narrative process point to the lasting pertinence of a number of ‘popular’ intertexts
such as the variety theatre, and the shadow play, stereoscopy and the Magic Lantern. In the
first place, then, Hofer’s films remind us once more that the distinction between attractionist
and narratively integrated modes of cinematic space was never meant to be a self-explanato-
ry analytical tool according to which individual films can be lined up along a linear transi-
tion, but provides instead a set of traits whose variable configurations constitute the histor-
ically unique discursive space of the individual film.

Melodrama! Social Drama: Training for Marriage?

The last point bears especially on the image of women’s films in early German cinema,
which, in the wake of Gunning’s distinction, has been defined by a number of bi-polar
models and oppositional pairs. A first opposition emerged around the tw'o major female
stars: while Henny Porten has been characterized as ‘a star who fits in well with the conven-
tions of the melodramatic scene,’ Asta Nielsen has gained exemplary status as the one ac-
tress who gave ‘a voice to a female presence in early cinema narratives, a voice notably
absent in those adaptations of melodrama that perpetuated the stage image of women as
prescribed by the dramatic sources.” Along the lines of the distinction between a ‘cinema of
attraction’ and a ‘cinema of narrative integration,’ Heide Schliipmann has principally argued
that the transition from the attractionist-exhibitionist form to the voyeuristic cinema of con-
tinuity in Germany not only meant a rise to cultural respectability through the co-option of
famous writers and actors into the film business, but brought with it a confinement to patri-
archal power structures in the narratives themselves:

(...W)ith the establishment of narrative cinema, there was a tendency to degrade
woman’s history to the status of mere content for which male bourgeois culture
provided the form of representation. To the extent that there remained, however,
a tension between the represented story and the dramatic famework (...), there
was always a chance for the actress in the film to express an oppositional stand-
point. This tension can be attributed to the collision between two media (litera-
ture and film) which also implied a collision between two cultures - classical
bourgeois and modem mass culture . 4

In order to investigate the ideological reverberations of this tension in the films, Schliip-
mann distinguishes between ‘melodrama’ and ‘social drama’ in Wilhehnine cinema. Ac-
cording to this logic, melodramas represented social problems of women in a traditionally
stylized tragic structure, by which the suffering of the heroine in a male -dominated society
is transfigured into an image of sacrifice that serves to domesticate the female narrative

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perspective which thus becomes merely the confirmation of an always already defined fem-
ininity: ‘The actress, representative of femininity, i.e. of male projection rather than articu-
lation of female experience, no longer represents her own narrative perspective, but enforc-
es the dominant order .’ 5 In contrast to the melodrama, the social drama did not force the
female narrative perspective in favour of a stereotypical representation of femininity within
a dramatized story but, by appealing to the curiosity of female spectators, gave the subjec-
tivity of the actress a ‘spatial framework’ in the text that derives its strength from the foun-
dation in the mode of the cinema of attractions . 6 In conclusion, Schliipmann states:

The appropriation of German cinema through the melodrama developed a re-
pressive distraction in the sublimation of the female gaze and its power. By con-
trast, the dramatization of the female gaze through the social drama tended to-
wards a representation of male sexuality, of the man as sexual object. This ten-
dency obviously collided with the influence of the guardians of bourgeois
culture; social drama, unlike melodrama, disappeared from narrative cinema af-
ter World War l , 7

Despite the strong dialectical formulation that concludes her article, Schliipmann sees con-
stitutive elements of the social drama shifting ‘underground’ into a variety of genres during
and after World War I, Accordingly, the main indicator of this transition is the formation of
the couple, represented within the institution of marriage, itself mediated by a particular
fetishistic articulation of female sexuality:

Tn this mediation lay the real significance of the objects. On the one hand, they
are everyday objects that play a role as props in the course of the narrative. On
the other, they possess a fetish character insofar as they appear in the place of the
openly erotic attraction in the ‘mistress films.’ They substitute for the sexual
element repressed in the representation of marriage (...). 8

Although Franz Hofer’s heidenroslein may serve as an example for this historical media-
tion between the traditional dramatic formula of the melodrama and the explosive subversive
potential of the social drama in German filmmaking of the later teens, it should be noted that
Schliipmann’s argumentation itself shifts onto the content level at this point, presupposing as
given and solidly established a representational logic (classical continuity cinema as the
norm) which makes this displacement necessary in the first place. The present analysis wants
to suggest a w j ay of conceiving the genre’s ‘social’ potential less along parameters of dis-
placement on the content level, or located in diametrically opposed star images or acting
styles. Instead, it suggests a mediation of another kind, one which uses the visual capacity of
the cinematic discourse to externalize individual emotion and desire while, at the same time,
if internalizes historical processes by rendering social conflicts in spatial terms. My analysis
does not assume a linear transition from an attractionist to a narratively integrated cinema but
- considering the results of a first statistical style analysis of the film which reveals only three

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instances of closer framing than medium and only two moving shots - bases itself on the
‘primitive’ tableau. We can here take Peter Brooks at his word when he claimed that the
melodramatic tableau gives the ‘spectator the opportunity to sec meanings represented,
emotions and moral states rendered in clear visible signs.’ 9 What follows is thus less a ‘symp-
tomatic’ reading of the narrative itself than a deciphering of the concrete spatial ‘condensa-
tions’ of social and moral codes that fill the melodramatic formula.

Deep Space and Frontal Space: Condensations of a Social Code

The historical evidence for Schliipmann’s argument goes back to the sociological data assem-
bled in Emilie Altenloh’s pioneering study Zur Soziologie des Kino from 19 14, 1(1 Based on a
close analysis of movie theatre statistics and over 2,000 questionnaires conducted in Mann-
heim, Altenloh’s Sociology of the Cinema has to be considered one of the most sophisticated
sources on spectator preferences and attitudes in the context of an industrial city before World
War I. The study has generally remained of special interest for its emphasis upon women as
a significant part of the early cinema audience - according to Altenloh, a complex phenom-
enon in the interplay between capitalist marketing via genres on the side of the industry, and
a socially as well as sexually determined popular taste on the side of the spectators. Altenloh
already explained the transformation that set in about 1910 as a result of a combination of
factors, not least of which were the rise of melodramatic narratives and the establishment of
larger, more comfortable theaters in the city centres. Being especially interested in why
women liked watching films, she found that they had marked preferences for melodramas
and social dramas. According to Altenloh, in both genres the central narrative conflict is set
up by ‘a woman’s battle between her natural, feminine instincts and the opposing social
conditions.’ 11 For the female protagonists of these dramas, as Altenloh further notes, the
choice is between ‘on the one hand prostitution, on the other the possibility of marriage at the
side of a man, who mostly belongs either to a considerably higher or lower social grade.’ 12
Despite the common view that Hofer ‘was apparently not a director of melodra-
mas or social dramas,’ 11 a view taken almost exclusively from the fixed perspective on his
pre-war productions, Hofer in fact directed a number of melodramas with strong social
undercurrents in the late teens, e.g. the series of films for Apollo-Film starring Lya Ley in
1916 and another series in 1918/19, starring Werner Krauss, later that year to play ‘Dr
Caligari.’ 14 As a first run through the plot may indicate, his 1916 film heidenroslein 15 can
stand for a clear example of a melodramatic narrative: Little Rose has come to visit her
grandparents for the summer holidays. She chances upon the young Count von Brodersdorff
on one of the walks both are taking in the nearby forest. Soon after, Rose is asked to tend to
the Count's mother, the local Baroness, who is suffering from rheumatic pains. On this
occasion she once more meets the Count, and at this point they both realize they are in love
with each other. From then on they continue to meet, though not only when Rose visits the
Baroness; their love makes them bold: they have secret dates in the forest or in a small
apartment the Count owns dow r n in the village. When Rose’s grandfather eventually finds

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out, he is furious because of the shame her action has brought on him and his family. Because
Rose entirely disappears from the public eye, the Count begins to believe the rumours of her
having died of shame. He returns to the little room to imagine her funeral service, after
having visions of their mutual past as lovers. Unwilling to stay in the dark about her fate any
longer, he decides to go to visit her grandparents’ house, where he finds her alive and well,
and assures her grandfather of his intentions to marry Rose.

If, for purposes of analysis, we adopt Altenloh’s narrative conflict and look how
this opposition between female desires and social restrictions is visually concretized in hei-
denroslein, we find a pattern of spatial character movement according to a division be-
tween deep space and frontal shot composition. Established in the opening sequence, this
pattern becomes the basis for an ingenious visual structure centred on the generic conflict
identified by Altenloh and echoing the stages of the narrative development. Framed by two
intertitles announcing the imminence of Rose’s annual visit and her actual arrival, the film’s
first image shows the grandparents in medium long shot in the foreground of their living
room. The first use of deep staging occurs with Rose’s anticipated appearance in the film as
she enters the front garden from the background and moves on a long diagonal axis towards
the open entrance door behind which the camera is placed in the dark foreground; she enters
the dark interior and leaves the shot past the camera. As the film’s principal character. Rose
creates the dynamic three-dimensional action-space which here, as in similar later shots, is
paired with frontal staging and the character’s direct eye contact with the camera, strongly
connecting to elements of cinematic exhibitionism and spectacle. The shot’s particular or-
ganisation of character movement, camera position and lighting could even be read as a
mediation between the filmic space and the imaginary space of the darkened cinema . 16
When Rose then meets her grandmother and grandfather in the next two scenes, in one she
enters into their frontal space and in the other remains immobile in the background. By
contrast, she regains her initial spatial mobility only in situations in which she is either alone
in the shot and/or just about to leave the sphere of her grandparents.

While this division between deep space and frontal staging in the first part of the
film remains on the level of character movement and character position, there is a consider-
able change, once Rose encounters Count Brodersdorff: again, it is Rose who moves from
background to foreground, stopping to pick some roses (!) from a bush. In the meantime,
Brodersdorff has entered in the background and observes Rose while leaning at a fence
which here, for the first time, visibly marks the near/far distinction, which previously had to
be crossed by Rose in order to be marked as such. Now it is being bridged by the looks of the
lovers’to be; the pleasure of the male look, however, is accentuated for the audience by the
metaphorical pairing of young Rose with real roses in the foreground. Although the shot’s
visually adroit near/far division of space here undoubtedly alludes to their social difference,
the full significance of this particular shot composition for the overall narrative conflict
between an unrestricted articulation of female activity and desire, and the surrounding con-
straints of the social and family hierarchies emerges only when, in subsequent shots, this

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heidenroslfjn (1916)

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division increasingly acts as a barrier and disruption of the action space identified with
Rose, With a similar spatial division, a later shot totally suppresses her diagonal movement
as she leaves her grandparents’ living room. In order to leave the family group sited in the
foreground, she first has to move to foreground right, then exit the frame altogether, before
reappearing in the background behind a window at the rear wall. The spatial configuration
of this shot thus metaphorically condenses the entirety of her narrative trajectory in the film.

Looks and Menial Spaces

Even more instructively, the organisation of the subsequent shots indicates the scale of the
multiple spatial codification, and particularly the gradual destruction of Rose’s initial mobil-
ity. Rose enters the background of shot 28, visible inside the house through the window at
which she stops to look outside to the foreground terrace. In the following shot, the door is
already open and Rose is on her way to the bushes in the foreground, overgrown with white
roses, obliging her to stop. While her look is directed off-screen, the image of Count
Brodersdorff becomes superimposed to her left, fading at the very moment she seems to turn
her eyes towards it.

Once more, her diagonal movement has been partially blocked by a door, which
here is further pronounced by a cut. Her movement to the foreground is now strongly asso-
ciated with the desire to recreate herself in the place where she was seen by Brodersdorff,
which is indicated by the superimposition of the object of her thoughts, and further suggest-
ed by the repetitive metaphorical use of the roses. The frontal space is here finally estab-
lished as the place of the heterosexual romance and thus the second socially defined sphere:
even in the female protagonist’s imagination it is determined by the objectifying male look.
At the same time that her desire is granted visual expression, Rose’s immobility exposes her
to the voyeuristic gaze of the male spectator, split - as before - between the male mirror
image on screen, and the pleasure to be gained from the visual metaphor aligning Rose with
roses. If she were to return the look as she had previsously done, the pleasure of the voyeur
would vanish like the Count’s image.

Whereas this new social dimension of the near camera space constitutes an op-
position to the social space shared with the grandparents, both these social spaces stand in
opposition to Rose’s initial action space in that they suppress diagonal movement and are
instead marked by a seeing/seen pattern within the single shot that exposes her to the con-
trolling look of either the Count or the grandfather. That this basic opposition is again pre-
dominantly constructed around the division of deep and frontal space is indicated several
times in the film. Once, during one of their secret meetings, Rose enters from the far back-
ground on the familiar diagonal axis and meets the Count in the foreground, before both
leave the subsequent medium shot, foreground left. A second time, when Rose is about to
leave her grandparents’ house through the front garden - inverting the axis of her entering
the film in shot 4 -, the grandfather forces her to step back into the house and thus to remain
in the foreground.

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Melodrama and Narrative Space

The most striking exemplification of this pattern can, however, be found when
Rose and her grandfather visit the baronial estate. After Rose, framed in a very long high
angle shot, diagonally approaches the (once more darkened) foreground, the next shot finds
her exposed to a whole assembly of socially controlling looks, most notably that of the
Count, the grandfather, and the Baroness, the Count’s mother.

heidenroslein thus knows two visual systems, deployed systematically and
within a determinate narrative logic. The development on the level of shot space from forms of
female spectacle -display to patterns of social, predominantly male control through the agency
of the look is paralleled by transitions in the seeing/seen pattern on the level of the imaginary'
space constructed by the editing. While in the first part of the film the editing was primarily
dominated by the female protagonist’s active look or movement, in the course of the action
this narrative agency is increasingly taken over by the two male protagonists, the Count and
the grandfather, here acting as the patriarchal instance par excellence. Whereas, for example,
the first of their morally and socially transgressive secret meetings was clearly initiated by
Rose through a point-of view construction relying on the near/far division, their last secret
meeting, disrupted by the grandfather and thus causing their temporary separation, is driven
by continuity editing of left/right screen direction, motivated by Brodersdorff’s look. Like-
wise, the psychological motivation for their secret meetings was initially represented as be-
longing to Rose’s subjectivity. Yet the long flashback and the dream sequence of the funeral
focalize BrodersdorfTs subjectivity, leading to his making the move and finally deciding to
marry her. Concomitantly, the active agency of the look is fully taken over by the grandfather,
who observes Rose in a number of point-of-view constructions. Both key constituents of nar-
rative agency, character movement and the active gaze, are split between the two male protag-
onists, propelling the action towards the generic outcome of ’melodrama’ (marriage), which
each by itself would not have succeeded in bringing about. Rose’s once dominant narrative
agency, on the other hand, is undermined and replaced by a male perspective which tries to
prevent the formal elements that gave a cinematic ‘voice’ to her desires. When, for instance,
her gaze and movement still seem to initiate a cut on action during a visit to the Baroness, the
next shot reveals both had been provoked by the ‘off-screen’ sound of the Count playing the
piano. Consequently, Rose’s movement remains within the foreground of the two shots, the
place of social interaction and control. In a similar vein, the grandfather has not succeeded in
his disciplinary efforts until he can literally remove Rose from her diagonal action space by
carrying her from the foreground to offscreen left after having caught her on her way to anoth-
er secret rendezvous. The extent to which the film relates frontal acting and lateral character
movement to oppressive patriarchal conditions towards female identity emerges for a last time
in the textual relation between the only two moving shots. The camera pans to the left when
Brodersdorff’s ‘off-screen’ piano music conspiciously motivates Rose’s change of action
space from the diagonal to the lateral axis. In the dream sequence towards the end of the film,
in which the Count imagines Rose’s funeral service in the local church, the camera pans slow-
ly to the right, away from the organ-playing priest to the grandfather and his pupils intoning

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what is supposed to be a requiem. Not only does the second pan shot to the right close the
space opened up by the earlier camera pan to the left; by substituting for the piano-playing
Brodersdorff a priest playing a requiem, a strong connection is established between the op-
pressive redefinition of Rose’s female narrative perspective and her imaginary misery.

Silhouettes and Hieroglyphs: Training for Effect

Every typical space is produced by typical social relations which it expresses
without the distorting intervention of consciousness. Everything denied by con-
sciousness, everything studiously ignored participates in the construction of
such a space. The images of space [Raumbilderj are the dreams of society.
Wherever the hieroglyph of a spatial image is deciphered, it displays the founda-
tion of social reality , 17

At the end of heidenroslein stands the anticipation of marriage. In this respect, ‘Training
for Marriage’ might have been a more appropriate title for this film, one that would have
made explicit much of German family melodrama’s most common dramatic feature, from
the teens to the sixties. In fact, it was the title of a film (presumed lost) directed by Hofer in
close temporal proximity to heidenroslein, and also starring Lya Ley as Rose and Fritz
Achterberg as her male counterpart; dressur zur ehe, however, was a light, comic melo-
drama where it is the husband who has to be trained for marriage on his honeymoon by his
wife and mother-in-law , 18 reinforcing once more that this genre’s social dimension unveils
itself much easier under the disguise of comedy . 19

By the time, in heidenroslein, Rose’s trajectory has taken the melodramatic turn
to marriage, it has passed along the razor’s edge between kept mistress and victimized wife.
Despite the gradual erasure of the female narrative perpective, however, the film does not
arrive at anything comparable to classical ‘voyeuristic’ cinema, with its neat narrative closure.
Rather, it leaves traces of alterity as the visible mark of the melodramatic genre: the studied
visual elaboration gives an overdetermined - even ironic - status to the role of Rose as mis-
tress, by rendering the secret love scenes as pure shadow plays of silhouettes, while showing
female victimization literally as the ‘dream’ of male subjectivity. The tableau of the last shot
which seals the promise of marriage is again composed as an echo of the cinematic situation
itself: the couple in the foreground is watched by the grandfather who is re -framed in a rectan-
gle formed by the wooden trellis entwined with white roses. It is the phantasmagoric quality of
such visual compositions which seems to suggest that the social reality to be read from these
hieroglyphs of happy endings necessarily takes the form of an illusion. Such a closing scene
suggests that in Wilhelmine Germany, as in other cultural contexts undergoing the transition to
modernity, the melodramatic mode can function as a form of narrative ambiguously poised
between conformism and subversion, for which film scholars have appropriated the term ‘ex-
cess.’ Which suggests to me, as it did to one unknown contemporaiy reviewer, another title
altogether: less ‘Training for Marriage’ than ‘Training for Effect .’ 20

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Cinema from the Writing Desk:
Detective Films in Imperial Germany

Tilo Knops

As long as the German detective film from the Wilhelmine period had been practically
forgotten, Siegfried Kracauer’s verdict could remain unchallenged, that a German detective
genre was hardly conceivable at that time. 1 Since the beginning of the nineties, however,
even this 'unknown galaxy' of early German films has been rediscovered, and Kracauer’s
pronouncement has faded from view; the films of the Stuart Webbs detective series alone
refute it. Specific characteristics of the Stuart Webbs films have now been worked out 2 :
while productions such as the Sherlock Holmes series from Nordisk, the Nick Carter films
from Eclair, the Nick Winter films from Pathe, or the Nat Pinkerton series from Eclipse
were attractive because of their haphazard stringing together of film sensations, the Stuart
Webbs series is considered ‘a contribution to the discussion on the legitimation of early
cinema,’* In line with the reform efforts, the German film industry attempted to present
realistic plots, a treatment supported by internal logic, more psychological plausibility and
convincing, individually distinct main characters, so that they would be accepted in the
tradition of classic detective novels so loved by the educated public.

Such a revision recognises the qualities of the international popular film culture
as at best a string of so-called sensations, although they also serve as foils for the German
detective films, which display an allegedly superior ‘narrative logic’ and ‘plausibility’ when
compared with the French product. This runs the risk of exacerbating the problematic, by
repeating - some eighty years later - the restrictions voiced by the German reform move-
ment aimed at the educated classes. The contemporary version modifies this, in the interest
of creating a myth of alternative culture, along the lines of a ‘shaking up of the normative
consciousness that knows to distinguish between appearance and reality, to judge between
lie and truth’ (Heide Schliipmann 4 ). However, is the theatre actor Ernst Reicher’s perform-
ance really to be seen as a ‘Trojan horse in the war of patriarchal, property-owning bour-
geois culture against the cinema,’ teaching ‘responsibility’? 5

Many aspects argue for a re-evaluation of early German cinema, considered in-
ferior or specifically teutonic for too long, especially when one recalls that up to World War
I the producers, not to mention the audiences, were oriented to an international scene/' At
the same time, however similar the development of the film form was from one country to
another, varying expressions of film development already existed, beginning with the pre-
history of popular cultural forms, especially with regard to the relationship between high
culture and the ‘trivial’ arts and thus the incorporation of foreign forms. Production and
distribution companies and investment in film were not equally capable of developing eve-

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rywhere at an industrial scale. Cultural preferences and resentments, the urge for cultural
respectability (an international phenomenon, but particularly pressing in authoritarian soci-
eties where status is linked to military codes of honour) were some of the differentiating
factors, which not only manifested themselves in the cultural ‘superstructure’ of taste, but
also in government measures such as amusement tax, building and fire police regulations,
and last but not least, censorship. It was no accident that in the USA, where the development
of the modem consumer society was furthest advanced, the public debate emphasised the
ability of the cinemas to integrate the masses as ‘democracy’s theatre,’ while in Germany
this ‘theatre of the common people’ was feared precisely because of its ‘egalitarian appeal.’ 7
Even when simply copying foreign success formulae, German productions possessed
unique characteristics, ranging from differences in production budgets, story structure, edit-
ing rhythm, and cast of actors to a preference for particular settings and camera set-ups. If it
was not only in the German cinema that eroticism decentred itself towards demonstrating
the civilized facade of the ‘woman of quality ’ (a la Henny Porten or Mia May), it is nonethe-
less noteworthy that Paul Wegener (in 1913 already a man of 39) could get away with satis-
factorily portraying der student von prag, thus showing that the Wilhelmine ‘gals’ had
their matching ‘guys.’ The First sociologist of the cinema, Emilie Altenloh, credited French
actors with a body language that made film drama look natural, in contrast to German ac-
tors, who seemed ‘fitted into postures that felt uncomfortable even to look at.’

In this cinematic landscape, the detective film was trash incarnate. Negative
judgements about melodrama and the detective film were rooted in a strong xenophobia,
because especially the educated classes were fearful of foreign influence. The flowering of
the German detective film thus occurred during World War I, when the foreign competition
no longer threatened the underdeveloped domestic film industry. 8

But even before the war, detective figures had appeared in German film, though
perhaps in a slightly different generic context, wo ist coletti? (1913), for instance, is an
Autorenfilm , a genre made prestigious by the film industry from 1912 through famous the-
atre authors and actors. These films were shown in ‘socially acceptable cinema theatres’
aimed at winning over a middle-class public. It was hoped that, once respectability had been
gained for the cinema, negative public opinion against it would subside.

wo ist coletti? is about master detective Jean Coletti, accused in an open letter
by the Berlin mass daily BZ am Mittag of withholding information about a certain known
criminal, in order to allow him to remain in town for another 4B hours. In a counter-move,
and to prove that even a well-known personality can show himself in a large city (over 1
million inhabitants) without being recognised, Coletti offered a reward of 100,000 marks to
anyone who spotted him, the famous detective, in the street. Until he eventually, as expect-
ed, wins the bet, Coletti successfully outwits the population hunting for the reward through
the use of various disguises, to the delight of the initiated viewers.

This German adaptation of a detective subject is strategically targeted by the
producers to give the film an international flavour. The detective has a French first name, an

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Italian surname, while his style of beard is specifically described as English, each trait in-
scribing a country whose domestic film production had established itself as a leading inter-
national player. The hope was to kill two birds with one stone: first, to attract potential
export interest, and second, to appeal to the film experiences of the domestic public, whose
choices were up to 90% foreign-influenced.

For the German variant of the detective genre as Autorenfdm , it was typical for
the detective not to solve sensational criminal cases, but to be himself the centre of attention
in a comedy. Detectives who reduce their talent to that of quick-change artists became au-
thorities in their own right. Their superiority is never questioned, and outwitting the rabble,
matrons and senile counts not so much thrills the public with the fear of the unexpected, but
gives them the chance to feel superior to the duped participants and to marvel endlessly over
the disguises.

A characteristic feature of wo 1ST coletti?, as indeed of many Autorenfdms of
the time, is that the most important characters are first presented in the manner of the thea-
tre, taking a call or stepping in front of a curtain. However, actors were almost less impor-
tant personalities for these rituals than the author and director. 9 After the (rather lengthy)
business with the newspaper and the open letter, the author, Franz von Schonthan, followed
by the director. Max Mack, are seen sitting at a desk. They are selecting suitable actors and
throw them by means of film trick technique - at the ceiling. The principal actor Hans
Junckermann as Coletti is seen dictating in his office, also in front of a desk, and is intro-
duced, like his girlfriend Lolotte (Madge Lessing), as a star ‘from the Metropol Theatre,
Berlin.'

WO 1ST COLETTI? ( 1913 )

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wo ist eoLETTi? also contributes to fulfilling the main goal of film industrial
efforts at that time, advancing closer to the evening-long feature film with its length of 1554
metres, or over one hour running time (depending on projection speed). However, the tran-
sitions are still clumsy, and the stringing together of scenes from the search for detective
Coletti, which allows a display of his special talents, is an old-fashioned technique, dating
from films about 1904. The visual tricks also derive from earlier works such as Melies,
Furthermore, there are problems with the construction of the narrative space. By presenting
the author, director and actors, a type of what is now called film-in-film construction is
suggested, whose purpose is to indicate that this is a film and not reality by ‘reflecting on
itself,’ breaking the spell of illusion cast. In those days, though, the conventions of ‘illusion-
istic’ classic narrative cinema were not yet familiar standards nor anywhere near generally
employed in German films. Two scenes illustrate this. The disguised barber Anton is shown
once on an upper bus platform, where the excited crowd rushes after him, mistakenly think-
ing he is Coletti. Later, after his true identity has been established, the entire event appears
in the cinema to mock the pursuing crowd. An intertitle carried a drawing of the bus followed
by the crowd along with an in-joke of that time, which even functioned as advertising for the
film company Vitascope. 10 The next scene is set in the inside of a cinema hall with the search
for Coletti repeated on the screen in the same sequence we had just seen, making it appear to
be author-less documentation, filmed reality. In classic narrative cinema an attempt would
have been made to explain why the viewer in the story could see the film from the same
perspective as we can, for example, by showing a filming cameraman in the first scene.

The rules of presentation in a logical and closed space being developed by
American cinema were not yet universally available. For instance, in another scene we see
Coletti from a 90° side view disguising himself in front of a sort of make-up mirror. The
mirror is on the left, Coletti in front of it on the right, and behind him to the right several
metres of the furnished room are visible, the walls adorned with a flowery wallpaper. Some
time later we see Coletti ’s face from in front, thus logically from the viewpoint of the mirror.
However, instead of seeing past him a view of the room in depth, the flowery wallpaper
appears directly behind his head. This is a prime example of a ‘continuity break,’ as it is
called today. Also, the frequent direct address to the audience, the sometimes purposeful,
sometimes unconscious glances and acting towards the camera, is typical of the transitional
period in film history. Another, unfortunately not isolated, example involves the girlfriend
Lolotte’s confusion when she (allegedly) cannot tell detective Anton apart from streetclean-
er Coletti, although she is talking to her disguised lover. That a familiar person could be
recognised by his voice appears to have entered the realm of improbability in German silent
films.

Meanwhile, the German female detective Miss Nobody remained oriented to-
wards the chases and cheap sensational plots of her American forerunner, but without
achieving the same level of suspense or acting agility ascribed to the latter. 11 In contrast,
shortly before the outbreak of the World War, the serial detective Stuart Webbs was intro-

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WO 1ST COLETTI? (1913)

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duced in an attempt to replace foreign detective and adventure films with a character who
more closely resembled Conan Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes. The series became a box-office hit
with the first film die geheimnisvolle villa, while Joe May’s earlier ‘prize competition
films’ (das verschleierte bild von gross-Kleindorf, 1913) could not attract the public
even by offering a prize for the correct solution to the mystery, contrary to expectations. 12

In der mann im keller (1914) we find Stuart Webbs, as we might have guessed,
sitting at the desk in his office, surrounded by symbols of middle-class respectability such as
tasteful furniture, bookcases, oriental rugs and medieval armour. He has been asked by
police headquarters to investigate a most unusual case: A small deerhound howls, and the
foremost English detective is called in. The dog was found in an uninhabited house, and the
detective believes that it must be howling for a particular reason. He looks around and finds
in the cellar an unconscious man locked in a trunk. He frees the man, but tries to arouse this
victim of a violent act in vain. After the man finally regains consciousness, he recounts to the
detective, who in the meantime has already established his identity, how an anonymous letter
he thought came from his bride led him to take a holiday from his job as officer in Cairo and
travel to London. There he was attacked by an unknown man. The detective establishes that
a double and two accomplices had got the officer out of the way so as to acquire the hand of
the rich bride and sell off stolen secret documents. The pseudo-officer was promptly arrest-
ed, but the detective also wanted to capture the accomplices and more importantly secure the
return of the secret documents. In the final scene Webbs invites the real officer and bride-
groom to the police station, where the double is delivered tied up in a trunk. The bride is
rushed over, but only with Webbs’ assistance can she identify the true bridegroom.

What stands out is the weak, hardly stimulating introduction - no murder has
been committed, only a deprivation of personal liberty combined with a robbery, which had
already finished at the time the film began, and an attempt at deception. Although the docu-
ments concern a subject that was ‘hot’ just after the start of the war, namely plans for a secret
weapon - it is never shown, not even unloaded. By playing down the criminal aspects the
plausibility of the entire plot is affected, from the very beginning. Why should the report by
Baroness de Vi lie of a deerhound howling in a cellar cause police headquarters to engage a
detective? The other events are equally full of improbabilities. Everything is treated with
more secrecy than is realistic for such a harmless riddle. Master detective Stuart Webbs
must make a razorsharp deduction to locate the awful whimper in the neighbouring cellar, in
fact, pinnacle of horror, through an old gas pipe. Why doesn’t the frightened Baroness know
even the name of the inhabitant of the villa next door, the colonial officer Lord Rawson?
And why must Webbs, commissioned by police headquarters and already at the scene of the
crime, first ask permission belatedly via telegraph from the lord before forcing an entry into
the villa on a rescue mission? Or was it just necessary for the plot to have an important
telegraphic correspondence with Cairo? Why does the fiancee entertain the toupee-wearing
double at home as her betrothed for a considerable length of time, and at the end require
Webbs’ help to identify the correct one when confronted with both lords? Why does the

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deerhound disappear from the script altogether after the tied-up lord is rescued from the
cellar and after leading Stuart Webbs to his owner’s address, the bride, who was looking for
him in the advertisements, when he played such a significant role at the very beginning of
the story? How did he get home? Why does Webbs have to disguise himself as a manual
labourer in order to snoop around in the house of the lord’s fiancee? Perhaps because every-
body knows the famous detective - but why the public should recognise his face is not
explained. The important fundamental contradiction between real and false telegrams and
letters must have been equally unresolved for the contemporary audience as for one today,
because too much text and data were requested at time points too far apart for the viewers to
remember the connections between them. 13 All this and much more remained mysterious, as
the public complained at that time. 14

In other Webbs films there are also evident improbabilities and a lack of logic.
For example, die toten erwachen had a ‘powerful beginning.’ In the Danish noble family
von Carok, the head of the family has been shot for no apparent motive, just like the grand-
father earlier. Webbs outwits the family’s notary, who will conveniently inherit the family
fortune after all the members are disposed of, in the scene described in the title: an attempt
by the notary to poison the Countess is reported to have succeeded. To lure the rascal out of
hiding, it is announced that an important document was buried in the coffin along with the
Countess. Three days after the mock funeral, the notary does indeed sneak into the tomb at
night and steals the document. Suddenly, the supposedly dead woman appears as an awak-
ened ghost, scaring him into confessing. Where the Countess stayed for those three days is
not mentioned. Did she really wait three days and nights in the coffin until the greedy notary
appeared? Certainly, while stealing the letter, the notary did not notice that the body was
missing. Thus, this key scene is not ‘realistic ’ or plausibly justified, and the suspense is not
made clear, but rather asserted.

Continuity errors did not seem to bother the producers of that period, nor the
viewers perhaps even today; for example, Stuart Webbs in die toten erwachen could fall
into the water with his cap and cigar case and get out dripping, with a soaked-through cap in
his hand, only to continue his investigation with the next step completely dry, sometimes
with, sometimes without cap and cigars. Others believed, as Karl Bleibtreu asked, that the
detective and the criminal must leam how to behave from now on in the cinema like real,
sensible people, not with this ‘cinema criminalistic, (...) where, e.g., a Count acts like a
boilemnan and the simple man from the street grumbles during many of the exciting parts:
“What a load of nonsense!” We can conclude that the public demands more and more a
sensible treatment and sense of logic..,’' 3

It is not only the lack of logic that hinders comprehension. The central problem
remains of a narrative film from the transitional period, in which an economy of information
transfer is missing, the system of an unsolved key mystery with constantly new minor rid-
dles appearing and being partially solved which in the classic thriller maintains the suspense
among the collaborating and involved viewer. Too much may be expected of the audience.

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as for example in der gesfreifte domino with its letters that are mixed up at the post
office, fallacious meeting places, protagonists disguised for a masked ball, and criss-cross-
ing plans and motives, because the main characters and their motives are not psychological-
ly clear and comprehensible, and all the mysteries are presented with the same amount of
stress.

As the thrill of the film is comparatively minor and hardly any pleasure can be
had in trying to solve the puzzle in Ernst Reicher’s self-penned script, the film’s attraction
depends on the appeal of the detective figure as an increasingly successful authority role, as
already seen in wo ist coletti?. Stuart Webbs does not engage the viewer’s intelligence.
His view of the situation is never questioned, he overcomes all difficulties, playfully solves
all mysteries and riddles, and can accordingly be admired. The variations in knowledge on
the one hand among the protagonists and on the other between the protagonists and the
public, those small dropped hints which ensure suspense in a classic thriller, are not equiv-
alent by any means.

In comparison with the exemplary Mr. Holmes, Webbs’ unsubtle deduction
method was criticised by contemporaries; however, Webbs is noteworthy for his dependent
relationship with the authorities, the police, even given the expectations of the Wilhelmine
position. The police are not treated with disdain as in the Anglo-Saxon detective models,
rather the opposite applies; in der mann im keller the police chief jests with one eye on
the clock whether Webbs for once would not walk into the station promptly at 8 o’clock
with the solution. In this connection it may be recalled that the introduction of film censor-
ship in Germany referred to an allegedly low regard for the police. 16

French detective films were completely forbidden, e.g. several Nick Winter se-
quels, zigomar, the fantomas series and les vampires ; 17 as were also Griffith’s early so-
cial critical melodramas like a corner in wheat . 18 In public, these censorship measures
were always justified by the danger of imitation. How limited the possibility was that the
German film industry could make crime thrillers and detective films with image effects
similar to the foreign ones was demonstrated by the surviving edited versions from the
contemporary film censors. German detective films were also regularly ‘forbidden for chil-
dren’ at least, while the permission for general release was made dependent on the removal
of several scenes. These scenes involved portrayals of violence, criminality or eroticism and
were considered embarrassing. Before der mann im keller was forbidden for children in
Berlin (from 1914) and ‘additionally forbidden for the duration of the war’ (in 1916), the
censor in Munich complained in 1914 about, e.g., ‘the magnified portrayal of the bound
man in the trunk, when the detective shines in a signalling lantern’ and further ‘the detective
disguised as a waiter knocks out the criminal with ether’ and ‘He places him in a travelling
case’. The German crime thriller film abenteuer eines journalisten was totally banned
in 1914 on account of two scenes: ‘ 1 . A criminal plants the bomb (close-up). 2. The portray-
al of the victims of the explosion under the rubble.’ In das treibende floss the following
extract was criticised in 1917: ‘In Act II, scene after titles 1 and 2, in which the criminal

139 Detective Films in Imperial Germany

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wraps a cloth around his hand, smashes through a door, and the swathed hand can be seen
for an extended period on the other side of the door.’ The Webbs film die graue elster was
partially forbidden in 1920 because of the following scenes: ‘2nd Act, 1. The dance se-
quence with the title: “Hello, Jonny! My girlfriend wants to dance with you!” 2. The knife
fight between two girls in the low dive - 3rd Act: 1 . The title: “Calm down, will you, I really
can’t give you anything more today.” 2. The scene after the title, in which Setty strokes
Jonny ’s thigh while he sits next to her,’

What actually remained for the German film industry then? Wherever close-ups
were used, they did not present dramatic climaxes, but had a didactic purpose. Thus, in die
toten erwachen Stuart Webbs was permitted to show the countess and the audience a
close-up of the revolver barrel to prove that her noble husband could not have killed himself
with it. This inspection, however, does not serve to decipher truly secret details, as it would
have in foreign examples, nor to care what the outer appearance symbolised as in fantomas
and les vampires; here no decapitated head will roll out of the trunk, simply because hide-
ous atrocities, brutal violence and breathtaking thrill are already fundamentally forbidden.
Improvisation, incoherence, and anarchy as in the French series are likewise unthinkable, as
are the erotic obsessions permitted to a blond innocent like Mary Pickford, Pearl White or
Lillian Gish; also, no comic figures as in the les vampires series appear in Stuart Webbs
productions, let alone the scandalous figure of a Musidora.

In summary', the detective genre received a slightly theatrical aspect, since the
protagonists were given foreign-sounding names to try to gamer some of the spectacular
box-office success of the international models, and concentrated more on the detective as a
master of disguises and on the appeal of modem technology, such as automobiles and
planes, than on sensational atrocities and revelations. Spectacular furnishings eagerly
moved into the picture, as already done in countless morality plays, by the frequent employ-
ment of depth of field: the collection of medieval armour and carpets, bearskins and other
animal rugs by the bed, statues and oriental tapestries represented a German middle-class
dream world full of unfulfilled colonial and feudal desires.

WILLIAM VOSS (1915}

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Indeed, the values of Wilhelmine culture derived from the conspicuously fre-
quent filmic use of symbolically overdetermined props. A holy relic of the middle class was
of central importance for the build-up of a scene: the writing desk. In der mann im keller
not only does the opening scene show the detective sitting at his desk, the police chief is also
sitting at one at the end of the film. Lord Rawson’s colonial office had palm trees and a
painted silhouette of Cairo as the backdrop, while in the foreground there was the heavy,
authoritative writing desk, as if it were a fixed cliche for an interior shot in a German film.
How is the next scene arranged, in which Rawson asks the Governor for time off? Around a
writing desk in the foreground, of course. In die toten erwachen we find Stuart Webbs at
a writing desk as the Countess sweeps in. Where do they start looking first? In the late
Count’s office, in his desk. He supposedly shot himself there. In the culprit’s house as well
we soon take in the well-known perspective, in the notary’s office in front of the desk. In
der geisterspuk im hause des professors an electrical shutter release for a cinemato-
graphic recording device is fixed to the writing desk, for the terrible occasion in which
someone moves towards the desk and pushes the chair away. Even in the remake of the
Stuart Webbs film das panzergewolbe from 1926 we find the hero at a desk in front of an
impressive set of bookshelves.

As the Italian cinema of fascism was called ‘Cinema of the white telephone’
after a fashion item of that period which was meant to symbolise the extravagant ambience
of events, so the German silent film could rightly be called the ‘Cinema of the imposing
writing desk’; just consider the relevant scenes in das cabinet des dr. caligari and partic-
ularly Fritz Lang’s sensationalist, espionage and master criminal films. Typical accoutre-
ments are the weighty, leather-bound tomes on the side, next to the desk lamp and a letter
holder. Usually the dark piece of furniture stands slightly off-centre in the foreground and
thus faces the viewer in a respectful position in relation to the authority figure, a stratagem
used not only in Wilhelmine society, as seen when visiting officials. 19

If the distinction between early ‘primitive’ and classic narrative is that the
former assumes more acquaintance with general cultural knowledge and awareness outside
of the film, while the latter is understandable in itself, then the German detective film is
marked even more obviously by the early cinema. This depends not merely on the settings
and topoi of detective and trash literature; they imitate after a fashion much more the formu-
lae of the foreign detective films which were so successful with the cinema-going public.
Their filmic ‘sensations’ were only claims, for in reality they were as trivial and well-be-
haved as the censor would allow. This led in the end to the fifth sequel in the Stuart Webbs
series being advertised with the expression that it passed the even stricter censorship with-
out being cut. 20 Kracauer’s thesis of a German lack of appreciation for the foreign detective
genre is confirmed. Comparatively speaking, the German detective cinema may not be more
narratively integrated than its foreign rivals, nor more of a ‘cinema of attraction.’ Its distinc-
tion may have to remain that, above all, it is the ‘cinema of the writing desk.’

141 Detective Films in Imperial Germany

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Ernst Reicher alias Stuart Webbs:
King of the German Film Detectives

Sebastian Hesse

"What makes this film different from all the other detective films? The strictest logic, only
sensations that are really credible, and psychological development.’ 1 So ran the advertise-
ment from Continental-Kunstfilm GmbH in the spring of 1914 for die geheimnisvolle
villa (‘The Villa of Mysteries’}, 2 the first in a series of Stuart Webbs films, the longest-
running detective film series and one which was to shape the style of German cinema. By
1926 fifty films had been made, 1 all of them with Ernst Reicher 4 in the leading role. In most
of them, Reicher was leading actor, scriptwriter and producer rolled into one. It was only in
1914, following a row with Continental, that he - at first together with Joe May - took the
initiative of setting up his own production company, the Stuart Webbs Film Company. The
model developed by Reicher served as the prototype for dozens of imitators and became the
archetype of the early German detect ive film. During the war years the domestic market was
flooded with home-made detective film series featuring gentleman investigators with Anglo-
Saxon names like Joe Deebs, Harry Higgs or Joe Jenkins. German ‘colleagues’ were few and
far between.

This genre convention was exceptional in a German film market that was other-
wise thoroughly closed to the outside world in the period 1914-18: propaganda was not well
served by heroes of foreign descent. Siegfried Kracauer explains the phenomenon with the
‘dependence of the classic detective upon liberal democracy,’ 5 In the absence of a democrat-
ic political system, the Germans would have been unable to ‘engender a native version of
Sherlock Holmes.’ 6 There was no place in a bureaucratic society built on rank that character-
ised the declining Kaiserreich for a ‘single-handed sleuth’ detective ‘who makes reason
destroy the spider webs of irrational powers and decency triumph over dark instincts.’ 7 He
was rather ‘the predestined hero of a civilized world which believes in the blessings of
enlightenment and individual freedom.’ 8 If we are to trust this thesis, the subversive side of
the private detective would have appealed to the disposition of an educated public interested
in emancipation, yet this explains neither the mass popularity of the genre nor the indiffer-
ence with which the film censor approached the detective series during the war years. 9 Fur-
thermore, the genre continued to hold sway during the early years of the Weimar Republic.
It would seem more relevant to examine the detective film - and Reicher’s impact upon it -
as a contribution to the discourse of legitimation of early cinema.

The ‘Reform Detective Films' around Stuart Webbs in Contemporary Criticism

The quotation opening this article confirms the extent to which film production and adver-

142 Sebastian Hesse

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tising in 1914 reacted to contemporary discussions about the quality of film drama. The
trade press continues this tendency, noting on the occasion of the premiere of die geheim-
nisvolle villa: ‘It would be no exaggeration to say that this latest creation of Joe May’s at
Continental-Kunstfilm GmbH constitutes a new, infinitely complete phase in the field of the
detective film.’ 10 The launch of the fifth Webbs vehicle provoked the following reaction in
the Licht-Bild-Biihne :

There can be no argument that the concept of the detective film has retained a
certain unpleasant aftertaste over the years (sic), which was expressed by,
among others, the censorship department of the war ministry. To many serious
critics, the typical film detective has become something of a ridiculous carica-
ture. The Stuart Webbs Film Company has managed to bring about reforms and
improvements in this field; all of its films to date constitute a document of the
fact that the detective film no longer has to be viewed with the usual suspicion, 1 1

The crux of the so-called Detective-Film Debate was that the cycles had deteriorated into
series of hair-raising adventures lacking all plausibility. Forcing the film industry to reas-
sess its own image, the criticism brought about certain reforms in the genre. Thus, shortly
before the first Stuart Webbs film appeared, the Kinematograph devoted its lead to the de-
tective film, in which the critic R. Gennencher wrote:

A large number of recent detective films, which employed the most colossal
range of possible and impossible effects, with very disappointing results, were
unable to trigger any deeper impression, because they lacked one of the elements
that is almost essential to the detective drama - the psychological moment! 12

This call for a greater level of psychological credibility was widely echoed in the demand for
realistic plots, an internal logic to the story and, above all, convincing, original leads. All this
the Stuart Webbs series seemed to provide, for shortly after the premiere of die geheimnis-
voi.le villa, the Licht-Bild-Biihne could hold the film up as a ray of hope for the future of
the genre. 13

Cinema Reformers and the Detective Film

While such articles appear to show the film industry (and the detective genre) in the mode of
critical self-reflexivity, they are more plausibly explained as attempts not only to advertise
the new, reformed kind of detective film, but also to ward off the ever more virulent agita-
tion of the cinema reformers, who threatened the very existence of the film industry with
their criticism of film drama (called Schundfilm, ‘trashy film’). The reformers had, since
1907, focused on the dangers which films glorifying sex and criminality presented to public
health and moral standards. The article 'Detective Film and Back Stairs Film,’ in the Licht-
Bild-Biihne of 1915, established the link. It chastised ‘the current preponderance of blatant,
or brutal, tasteless detective and sensation films’ 14 because they played into the hands of the

143 Ernst Reicher alias Stuart Webbs

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reformers: ‘The chief enemies of cinema could not have asked for a better gift. More censor-
ship, restrictions placed on cinemas and other measures aimed against film - all these can be
justified by blaming such films.’ 15

The reform movement was well-organized and orchestrated its campaigns
across a broad spectrum of popular culture, ranging from trash films to cheap fiction - the
best example being the Nick Carter series - against which the educated classes had been
crusading since their appearance at the turn of the century. Thus, Robert Gaupp, a physician
and psychologist, concludes, after listing the characteristic elements of early fiction film:
‘The cinema drama shares all these things with the trashy detective novel. But the cinemat-
ograph has a more damaging and nerve-racking effect due to the temporal concentration of
events.* 15 In 1912 the journalist and theatre critic Willy Rath linked this line of argument
with the fear - typical of the time - of foreign infiltration;

The colossal market in trashy literature came largely from abroad, particularly
from Anglo-American sources, even if by now it has made this trashy filth seem
like home-grown. Barely had our worthy educationalists begun to stem the tide
from this direction when a second, even greater, onslaught w'as launched in the
form of the trashy film: it, too, slavishly imitated by unscrupulous natives. 17

In their outrage over the crime film and its literary equivalent, the bourgeois cinema reform-
ers and the critics of the left were largely in agreement. In a 1912 article published in the
Social Democrat periodical Die Gleichheit (‘Equality’), ‘nerve-racking detective dramas’
were blamed for diverting the workers from the quest for moral uplift and educational ad-
vancement. 18

The film industry soon realised that only an improvement of individual produc-
tions and a refinement of the genre as a whole could bring about the desired effect of reha-
bilitating an extremely popular and profitable genre, while at the same time attracting new
audiences. Like the reformers, Emilie Altenloh compared the early detective film to the
penny dreadful, attributing their popularity to the ‘immutability of taste among the young,’ 19
which, a few years earlier, had brought about the success of ‘Nic (sic) Carter literature’ and
was now making converts in the cinema. But since the relatively limited target group for
early crime and detective films mostly frequented the cheaper-priced suburban cinemas,
which offered their clientele ‘a long programme with as many detective dramas and dramas
of manners as possible,’ 20 from 1912 the pressure was on for films that could play in the
more comfortable picture palaces in central locations, where the greatest profits could be
made. This meant cross-breeding the popular Anglo-American formula with the classic de-
tective novel, so beloved by the educated classes. William Kahn, scriptwriter on the Joe
Deebs films and later detective film director himself, managed his bid to legitimacy by
using E.T.A. Hoffmann and Edgar Allan Poe as inspiration for a contemporary detective
film. 21 But it was Joe May and Ernst Reicher with their Stuart Webbs series, who most
successfully targeted a public with spending power and cultural tastes to match.

144 Sebastian Hesse

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The Webbs Films - An Analysis

The earliest surviving Webbs film is der mann im keller (‘The Man in the Cellar’), from
1914, In it, the detective f ollows the trail of a band of criminals who, on the eve of war, are
plotting to steal the plans for an automatic pistol and the dowry of a rich heiress, Reicher ’s
script is characterised by a narrative structure which seems far more complex than that of
earlier detective films. Its charm lies in the gradual deciphering of several layers of decep-
tion and appearance. At first Webbs is engaged by a London widow to investigate strange
noises in her house. He discovers that what she can hear is a terrier howling in the house
next door, which stands empty, the sound being amplified by gas pipes in the walls. Investi-
gating further, Webbs discovers a stranger, the dog’s owner, lying unconscious in the cellar.
The film now follows Webbs step by step, as he unravels the mystery; the man is Lord
Rawson, an officer in the colonial guard, who was lured back to London from Egypt by a
bogus telegramme. The gang leader, impatient with the slow progress of his plot, takes his
victim’s place in order to get his hands on his fiancee’s fortune. There follows a complex
game of disguise and discovery that Webbs finally brings to an end in a hotel room where he
and his clients are staying.

The film clearly departs from the genre conventions of the pre-1914 period. For-
eign productions - Nordisk’s Sherlock Holmes series, Eclair’s Nick Carter films, Pathe’s
Nick Winter films or Eclipse’s Nat Pinkerton series - relied on an often random sequence of
filmed sensations. The German crime films from 1913, in particular (the Miss Nobody se-
ries or the films of Joseph Delmont, Harry Piel, and Franz Hofer) all shared two dominant
elements: chase sequences in which the camera was pointed at the world outside, and a
euphoric enthusiasm for modem technological discoveries, coupled with a passable belief
in their emancipatory application. 22 Cars, railways, speedboats, and aeroplanes were put to
use by pursuers and pursued alike, with the camera always in on the action (often sharing
the point of view of the pursued). At the same time these films disassociated themselves
consciously from the symbols and insignia of a pre-modem, antiquated world, taking the
plunge into a highly technological realm of rational thinking. For instance, in the second
film of the Miss Nobody series, das geheimnis von chateau Richmond, (‘The Secret of
Chateau Richmond’) the progressively minded female detective is up against a secret soci-
ety gathered around a table covered with skulls. Her analytical powers allow her to decipher
the mysteries of a castle littered with terrifying knights’ armour. A robust faith in the
achievements of modem technology and the powers of reason characterise all these films.

The Stuart Webbs films are quite a different matter. This gentleman detective
resides in an office fitted out with knights’ armour and a huge desk topped with a skull.
Webbs epitomises the classical protagonist. Heide Schliipmann picks up on the iconogra
phy of film heroes, when she writes that Webbs’ profession is ‘a kind of progression of the
romance of chivalry in contemporary dress.’ 23 Reicher, a man of the theatre, reworked ingre-
dients of both the 19th century mystery novel and the classical detective novel in order to
create his character. In doing so he was departing from what had become the central charac-

145 Ernst Reicher alias Stuart Webbs

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teristics of the genre: technology and the contemporary outdoor. Both played only a subor-
dinate role for Webbs, the action having returned to the rather stagey look of the middle-
class living room.

Technical progress was only thematised when it had to carry the plot; when
Webbs, for example, dismantles the gas pipes which have served to amplify the noise from
next door and which have become obsolete with the introduction of electricity. May and
Reicher made an exception when it came to using optical effects to communicate the self-
reflexive characteristics of the film medium. Associations with the beam of light from the
film projector were probably calculated effects, for example, in scenes where Webbs
searches the cellar where the officer is held captive with a battery torch. In the third film in
the Webbs senes, der geisterspuk im hause des professors (‘Ghosts in the Professor’s
House’), this element plays an even more central role. The technical possibilities of cinema-
tography are deliberately employed by the detective to clear up a series of mysterious break-
ins in the study of a certain Professor Warming. The programme notes inform us that Webbs
uses ‘cinematic recording equipment with a flash attachment ’ 24 connected to an electric
shutter release. The programme goes on to explain: ‘If somebody walks up to the desk and
moves the chair, an electric contact is set off automatically. The equipment is tested and
works smoothly: at the slightest movement of the chair the flash goes off and the cinemato-
graph is set in motion .’ 2 - 4 May and Reicher thus provide a practical dimension to the legiti-
mation discourse of cinema by thematising the cinematograph as a substantial means of
solving crime.

But the charm of the early Stuart Webbs films also lies in another feature, which
seems much more appropriate when seen against the backdrop of the contemporary political
scene - one of unrest and the threat of war: the game of truth and deception, reality and fake.
This was already a central theme in der mann im keller. Both the detective and the crim-
inals have faith in the perfect functioning of disguise. At the end, when the rescued officer
and the disguised leader of the criminals come face to face, not even the fiancee can tell the
real from the phoney. Webbs appears in disguise a total of four times - twice as an electrician
so that he can investigate the house where Lord Rawson’s fiancee lives; once as a beggar in
a dive in the suburbs (one of the clearly anti-Semitic interludes in the series), and on another
occasion, at the final showdown in the Grand Hotel, where he masquerades as room-service.

der mann im keller, then, takes on board two of the major themes of its age: the
‘crisis in our normative consciousness that can distinguish between reality and appearance,
between truth and lies ’ 26 and the discourse concerning the legitimacy of film itself as a
medium . 27 The political turmoil leading to war, which much disturbed the public of the day,
may well have made audiences receptive to the distrust that manifests itself in such a scep-
tical attitude towards the truthfulness and documentary value of the film image. In the second
Webbs film the threat lies in the way evil is capable of perfect mimicry, and Reicher, the
theatre actor, must have relished the challenge. Taking on other identities, tirelessly slipping
into the most varied of roles - all this belonged to the domain of the (theatre) actor, a figure

146 Sebastian Hesse

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DER MANN IM
KELLER ( 1914 )

whose legitimacy as a serious artist was never in question in the eyes of the educated classes.
der mann im keller, made in 1914, can also be read as an allegory of the cinema reform
debate that raged at the time. Many of cinema’s critics saw the very realism of the film image
as its central danger, especially in crime and detective films where accuracy would act as
instruction and attract unwelcome imitators. Reicher, the solid man of the theatre, however,
was ‘a kind of Trojan horse in the war between the patriarchal, bourgeois culture and the
cinema’ 28 demonstrating a mature, responsible attitude towards contemporary phenomena -
phenomena which could neither be ignored nor combatted by prohibition. This may explain
the iconography of the modem knight, the old-fashioned hero keeping his cool amongst the
confusions of the modem world.

Stuart Webbs the film hero was promoted as a ‘psychologically credible’ identi-
fication figure with clearly defined personality traits. Situations are presented in a ‘realistic’
way, such as the excruciating pain a criminal is inflicting on himself when using an open
flame to bum the ropes that tie up his hands. The trade press was triumphant: ‘Conan Doyle
stories, collections of famous legal cases, they all pale into significance next to such realis-
tic, stirring (sic) performances. The dead written word can only look amateurish next to the
living image,’ 29

After three well-received Webbs films, the summer of 1914 saw' a split between
the May/Reicher duo and Continental Kunstfilm. From this point on, the Stuart Webbs se-
ries was produced by the Stuart Webbs Film Company, based at Dorotheenstrasse 53, Ber-
lin. The acrimonious legal battle over the separation was followed closely in the trade press.
May and Reicher took out w'hole-page ads to announce, for instance, that ‘It is untrue that
Mr Ernst Reicher had agreed in his contract not to produce any Webbs films, since Conti-

147 Ernst Reicher alias Stuart Webbs

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nentai had sole rights in this domain. It is, however, the case that the managers at Continen-
tal were aware that Ernst Reicher intended to produce his own Stuart Webbs films.’ 30 das
panzergewolbe (‘The Amoured Vault,’ 1914) was a joint production from Reicher and
May, but once war had broken out, May had to return to Vienna to do his military service,
and on his return to Berlin, May and Reicher themselves split up, with May embarking on
the Joe Deebs series, very much in the mould of the Stuart Webbs film.

Reicher for his part also carried on in May’s absence, and the fifth Stuart Webbs
film, der gestreifte domino (‘The Striped Domino,’1915) shows few essential changes
to the formula. In the opening credits Ernst Reicher appears from behind a theatre curtain,
dragging Adolf Gartner, the resident director of his first films, with him. Both bow, as if to a
theatre audience - a gimmick which must have gone down well with the audiences of the
picture palaces.

In der gestreifte domino Webbs, taking a break from the detective business,
stumbles upon a mysterious chain of events. A letter which comes into his possession by
mistake tips him off about an American millionaire whose only son has been unjustly disin-
herited. Webbs discovers that the guilty party is the man’s stepbrother and is able to recon-
cile the deserving members of the family. The climax of the film is a masked ball, at which
Webbs explains the true connections wearing the striped domino of the title. His disguise is
so perfect that even the adoring cousin 31 of the unjustly slighted son is initially unable to
recognise him. The family tragedy is resolved when the stepbrother, exposed by Webb,
commits suicide rather than face disgrace, der gestreifte domino also plays on the battle
of truth and lies, in which Webbs himself is initially a victim. He sees in the contents of the
letter he received by mistake the disclosure of a crime. In fact, it has to do with the attempt
on the part of the cousin and the stepbrother to reconcile the disowned son with his fatally ill
father. But even this is only half true, for Webbs is finally able to prove that the seemingly
honourable son is actually the man behind a large-scale fraud.

Another noteworthy feature of this film is the middle section: the scheming son
has Webbs - dressed as a detective - kidnapped. His accomplices are coloured, reminiscent
of the black member of the gang of criminals in der mann im keller. This kind of racist
element is taken even further when Webbs raids an opium den. This motif is already found
in the Nobody film, die jagd nach der hundertpfundnote (‘The Hunt for the One
Hundred Pound Note,’ 1913) and was taken up again by Fritz Lang in die spinnen (‘The
Spiders,’ 1919/20). Webbs escapes by cutting off the pigtail of an intoxicated Chinaman and
disguising himself as an Asian.

The sixth film in the Webbs series, die toten erwachen (‘The Dead Awake,’
1915) breaks with the traditional expectations of the viewers, so used to seeing all exotic
foreigners as loathsome accomplices to Evil. The Indian servant of a nobleman is a tempo-
rary suspect, but is eventually rehabilitated by Webbs, die toten erwachen otherwise
reinforces all the characteristic elements of the series. The Gothic novel aspect becomes
clearer than ever, especially in the gruesome showdown in the vaults, where ‘the dead

148 Sebastian Hesse

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awake,’ after first having stood as still as wax figures opposite the murderer. Reicher adopt-
ed a self-referential attitude towards the medium, and this play on the fairground thrills of
yesteryear certainly alludes to the origins of cinematography in waxworks and shadow
plays, die toten erwachen combines a classic ‘whodunit’ structure with well-tested film-
ic genre conventions, to which are added a large dose of horror. Stuart Webbs comes across
as the blase dandy more than in earlier films, dressed with unremitting casualness, whether
the occasion calls for an elegant dinner jacket, sailor outfit or sporty, lord-of-the-manor
garb. Acting as a superior tactician and strategist and fearless daredevil, all rolled into one,
Reicher had dearly reached the pinnacle of his narcissistic capacity to produce vehicles for
himself.

Ernst Reicher in
DAS PANZBK-
GEWOLBE (1926)

Postscript: Swan Song of a Genre

In the early German cinema, the Stuart Webbs series is in many respects an exception. It
made obvious and conscious reference to contemporary debates in film: its enormous effect
on improving its style, its extraordinary longevity and - inadvertently perhaps - its solid
position in tradition. This was accompanied by a phenomenon that, to my knowledge, no
other film series and no other genre can claim: the Webbs series concluded with a filmic
swan song, to itself and to the whole genre, whose archetype it had become. Twelve years
after die geheimnisvolle villa, in 1926 Lupu Pick 32 produced a remake of the first and
only May/Reicher-produced Webbs film, das panzergewolbe, for his own production
company Rex-Film (part of the Ufa). 33

The filmic depiction of the detective figure and his surroundings in 1926 was
intended to prompt comparisons with the early classics of the series. After 12 years,
Reichert had little left of his youthful charm and came across as overweight and strangely

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lethargic. The character’s liveliness and quick-wittedness had given way to a kind of passiv-
ity that had a serene, rather pained effect. Whereas the young Webbs was surrounded by
knights* armour and skulls, he now resided in a sober, functional -looking office, furnished
only with a modem-looking desk and an impressive bookshelf. Similarly, the congested,
gloomy drawing rooms of his clients had been replaced by light rooms epitomising the new
functionalism of the 1920s. Other changes, in terms of form and decor, also confirm that
Lupu Pick was more concerned with dismantling a film legend than to revival a classic
entertainment genre, nowhere more clearly than in the closing sequence. Stuart Webbs, who
spent the whole film looking listless and world-weary, can now safely retire to bed. The
interminable list of orders his servant presents him with merely provokes the comment Tam
tired." At this point, Webbs disappears behind a secret door in his library. Where the most
famous detective figure in early cinema history had once stood proud and ready for action,
there was now only a bookcase. The camera moves towards it, affording the audience a good
look at the rows of books, bound like literary classics. Among them, of course, are the
adventures of Stuart Webbs, alongside those of Sherlock Holmes, Arsene Lupin, Nat Pink-
erton and Nick Carter. The stories have become the inventory of an antiquarian, specialising
in classic detective literature, to which his own exploits can now be added. On this ironic
and fond note ends Lupu Pick’s strange remake, his sardonic homage to a genre that had
become meaningless.

Ernst Reichert as Stuart Webbs

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The Faces of Stellan Rye

Casper Tybjerg

Most discussions of der student von prag have tended to stress the contribution of Hanns
Heinz Ewers, the writer of the screenplay, and Paul Wegener, the star of the film; they are
both often credited with being the real ‘author' of the film. In the following, I shall not
attempt to resolve this question of ‘authorship’ in favour of one or another of the three.
Instead, I will try to shed a little more light on the life and career of its director Stellan Rye.

From 1904, Rye - who came from a Danish military family and in 1900 became
a lieutenant, if with more artistic ambitions - began writing poetry, short stories and occa-
sionally self-consciously artistic pieces on military life in the weekly magazine Verde nsspe-
jlet. Rye soon came under the influence of another writer with a military background: Aage
Herman von Kohl, three years older than Rye, had left the army to satisfy his ambitions as a
writer. To Kohl, art was a grave matter indeed; its task was to aid man in his rise towards the
superhuman. Paired with this Nietzschean idealism, a fascination with perversion and cruel-
ty characterized Kohl’s artistic personality, ‘in whose convention-shattering genius the wor-
shipping Rye saw the long-awaited Messiah of literature.’ 1

After a short time, however, Rye became a friend and protege of the writer Her-
man Bang and contributed regularly to the newspaper Kpbenhavn with which Bang was
associated. Herman Bang, author of the twice-filmed novel Mikael (1904), was a prose
stylist of genius and one of Denmark’s few great writers, a passionate lover of all things
theatrical, and a gifted stage director. His famously histrionic recitations, where he would
read from his own works, had made him a celebrity. His mannerisms made him an inviting
target for satire, which would often gain a vicious edge by hinting at Bang’s homosexuality.

Rye, too, was homosexual, and the fact that Kohl was an aggressive champion of
the inviolability of the material union may have alienated him. The actor Olaf Fpnss, later a
famous movie star in both Denmark and Germany, has given a somewhat unpleasant de-
scription of his first impression of Rye:

(T)his was First Lieutenant Stellan Rye, who - in honest truth was not mascu-
line, but the opposite, despite his tall, slender figure, which was combined with a
handsome, dark face. If it were conceivable that Hermann Bang could have fa-
thered children, Stellan Rye as his son would have been a boy who resembled his
father, both in his gifts and his affectations. 2

Rye’s Dramatic Debut

Fpnss and Rye met in 1906 when Rye arrived at the prestigious Dagmar Theatre in Copen-

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Faces of Deceit ( 1 906 )

hagen to direct his own first play, Ltfgnens Ansigter (‘The Faces Of Deceit’). The Faces of
Deceit bears the subtitle A Symphony, it consists of four independent dramatic situations,
entitled ‘Allegro,’ ‘Andante funebre,’ ‘Scherzo,’ and ‘Finale/ This synaesthetic conceit has a
definite fin de siecle air about it, which is also reflected in the stories. The first one concerns
two artists, one middle-aged and blase, the other youthful and high-strung, and their model,
beautiful, conquettish, amoral; the young artist ends up with a broken heart. The second
story is about a cruel and egoistic gutter-press newspaper editor and his former mistress; not
satisfied with having taken her virtue or turned her over to his underlings to become ‘the
madonna of the newsroom,’ he has poisoned her marriage with anonymous letters; she pulls
a gun and shoots him dead. The scherzo deals with three women who meet after the death of
a man all of them loved; they discover that he in different ways cruelly deceived them all.
The finale takes place in a circus; a sweet -natured lady down struggles to keep her partner-
husband; he has become infatuated with a dazzling horsewoman, but she cares only for the
sadistic animal trainer, who scornfully strikes the clown down with a whip; the down, en-
raged by his impotence, turns on his down- wife and strangles her.

A fashionable cynicism prevails throughout. Love is for fools, and in all four
stories, the gentle and the innocent are duped and humiliated by the selfish and unscrupu-
lous. When the play opened on September 5, 1906, many reviewers objected to it for being
contrived, uneven, and overwrought, but also acknowledged its intensity: ‘popular melodra-
ma and high literary style have formed a misalliance that, like all such unions, has produced
healthy and vigorous offspring,’ wrote Verdensspejlet? Other reviewers were more hostile,
but there seems to have been a general agreement that the opening of The Faces of Deceit
was an event of some importance. Rye’s unusual promise as a stage director was widely

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recognized. Even F0nss (the sadistic animal trainer), who clearly disliked Rye, admits that
he regarded him as an unusually gifted director, an opinion which seems to have been
shared by many of the actors. Clara Pontoppidan, who would soon grace the screen in a
number of excellent films, wrote about Rye in retrospect:

(H)is direction was quite an event for us, because he was so full of ideas, so
daring, so unconventional (...) his big secret being of course an always searching
and curious attitude towards all and everyone who might bring fresh impulses,
though he certainly could manage himself (...). 4

Johannes Poulsen, the theatre’s handsome young star, who played the clown-husband, com-
pared working under Rye with

teaching recruits military discipline - a discipline that very much resembles the,
shall we say, artistic military discipline which a drama must always contain.
After all, a play must, outwardly, proceed like a gymnastics display. I think that
this background along with the old, impeccable breeding of his family gives Rye
a big advantage on top of his truly heartfelt (...) artistic abilities. 5

The play came out in book form a few weeks after the opening, and many elements of the
direction have been written into it. 6 The physical appearance and the mannerisms of all the
characters are closely detailed. The dialogue is studded with directions on tone of voice,
gestures, expressions. Many lines are incomplete, and there is a great number of dashes,
used to indicate pauses, sometimes two or three together to designate longer ones. Even the
rhythm of the lines, the emphasis on individual syllables, is indicated through the use of
variations in letter spacing. On occasion. Rye attempts simultaneity effects; inserting direc-
tions for one character’s reaction within another’s lines, for instance. At the very end. Rye
strings stage directions for several characters together as a continuous sentence that furls
itself around some lines of dialogue.

All this seems to indicate a very complete directorial vision, where all the ele-
ments of the staging have been thought out and planned in the director’s imagination before-
hand. This is the way Herman Bang would stage plays; he was, as already mentioned, a
highly regarded stage director, and he would seem an obvious influence on Rye.

Yet, in his review of The Faces of Deceit , Bang wrote:

This young man, who has stood upon a stage for the first time during these
rehearsals; who would appear to be bereft of all training; who could not be imag-
ined to have any knowledge of the complexities of stage mechanics or of the
laws of the drama - he revealed himself from the first instant as a bom master of
stagecraft. 7

This strains credibility, and with reason. For the 1906 New Year’s party of the student union
of the University of Copenhagen, Rye directed a parody performance of Lohengrin, playing

153 The Faces ofStellan Rye

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the title role himself. Around the same time, that is, nine months before the opening of The
Faces of Deceit \ Rye was present at one of Bang’s rehearsals, which he extensively de-
scribed in a magazine article. 8

Rye and Herman Bang

In Bang’s novel De uden Fcedreland (1906; English title: Denied a Country), a minor char-
acter appears who is said to be a portrait of Rye. 9 The protagonist of the novel is Joan, a
violin virtuoso, son of a Danish mother and a Central European nobleman, ruler of a Danu-
bian island belonging to no nation. As a child, he is ruthlessly persecuted by the boys in the
nearby town, as ruthlessly as the Jew and the hunchback. Only the Rye character, ‘the white
officer,’ a lieutenant with delicate hands, who seldom speaks but displays a refined sensibil-
ity, treats Joan with any respect. The officer feels intense distaste at the persecution suffered
by the boy and looks forward to escaping from the vulgar provincialism of the town. 10

Rye’s association with Bang, however, also attracted unwelcome attention. On
August 24, 1906, less than a fortnight before the opening of Rye’s play, a large article
appeared in the gutter paper Middagsposten under the headline ’The Faces of Deceit.’ It
disclosed the existence of an unsavory ’Men's Club’ whose members ‘all belong to the
category “faces of deceit” - that is, men of good social standing who hide their unnatural
night-time activities beneath a mask of respectability,' 11 Worse was to come. In November,
a number of people were arrested (homosexual acts were under most circumstances illegal
and punishable by law), and the ’Men’s Club Affair’ grew into a full-scale scandal. There
were aggressive claims in the yellow press that Bang was questioned by the police, though
this may have been untrue. 12 In an article printed November 27th, Middagsposten had al-
ready insinuated that Rye was implicated in the affair:

At one of our artillery barracks it is said by a reliable source that a young, stage-
minded officer has given instructive lectures on ‘diseased love’ to both enlisted
men and cadets and convinced some of the latter to join the Satanic club. The
young, affected officer took indefinite leave when Emil Aae [a central figure in
the affair] was arrested. 13

But torrents of abuse were directed at Bang, 14 who finally left for Berlin in mid- 1907 and
stayed away for two years. Rye only left the army and was hired as a stage director at the
Dagtnar theatre.

Rye 1907-11

Rye was quite successful there and occasionally staged a play of his own, but none of them
really came up to his initial success with The Faces of Deceit. In the summer of 1 910, Rye
worked with Pontoppidan on developing her performance as Puck in an open-air perform-
ance of A Midsummer Night's Dream, and it became one of the most acclaimed performan-
ces of her early career. But in January 1911 a new affair, the so-called ‘military scandal,’

154 Casper Tybjerg

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erupted. At the artillery barracks at BMsmandsstrsede in Copenhagen, the investigation of a
theft revealed that the petty officer whose money had been stolen had, along with nine
others and over a period of several years, regularly committed indecent acts (i.e., mutual
masturbation) with eight older homosexual men in return for money and gifts, 15 Stellan Rye
was one of the eight. He w as working with Clara Pontoppidan, helping her with choreogra-
phy and costume design for a dance performance she was preparing: ‘Nervous and agitated
he sat there, pale and confused, during all my rehearsals. He tried as hard as he could to pull
himself together, he fought bravely and energetically for me, but he was not able to do
justice to his great gifts/ 16

On March 18, 1911, Rye was arrested. Along with four others (the remaining
three fled abroad), he was charged with gross indecency and convicted; on June 27th, he
was sentenced to three months' imprisonment. Rye decided not to appeal, but instead to
petition for mercy. But the prosecution appealed; two of Rye’s co-defendants had been ac-
quitted. On November 1 st, the High Court found in favour of the prosecution; the sentences
were stiffened and Rye went to prison for 100 days. When he got out, Rye was a ruined men.
Clara Pontoppidan describes how

(t)he treatment inside had (...) tormented him. In the midst of his ire he would
suddenly stop, pull slips of paper from his pocket and with deep sadness and
tears in his eyes read poems to us, wonderful poems he had written in prison, A
moment later he would again pace the room with his restless steps, as if still
chained to the narrow cell. 17

Rye left for Germany, never to return. But before he left, he wrote a film script, Det blaa Biod
(‘The Blue Blood’) which was produced by the film company Skandinavisk-Russisk Han-
delshus and directed by Vilhelm Gliickstadt. The film which was released in April 1912, is
lost, but from the programme booklet we know the story: An impoverished nobleman and his
woman-friend are living together, unmarried, with their child. His old uncle dies, bequeath-
ing him a vast fortune on the condition that he marries a lady of the nobility. Yielding to the
demands of tradition, he leaves his mistress and marries a suitably aristocratic young lady.
The forsaken woman appears at the wedding, the child in her arms, her sanity destroyed by
her anguish. She is removed, but returns, appearing in the grand ballroom, whirling madly
about until she drops dead from a broken heart. The bride is about to leave, but thinks the
better of it and decides to take the motherless child and, with her husband, build a new life.

Rye and the Cinema

In the bustling metropolis of Berlin, Rye was able to find both friends and work. He had
become interested in the cinema. In an interview for Lichtbildbiilme, he said:

What led me away from the stage to the cinema? More than anything else I was
excited about working without the word for once. I have written a number of

155 The Faces of Stellan Rye

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plays myself which were successful on the stage; on my bookshelf stand six
books from my pen. So no-one can make the charge against me that I disdain ‘the
word.’ And then 1 was lured by the opportunity to be able to create art, without, for
once, this ‘word’ - almighty and until today the sole source of salvation. 18

According to a brief biographical sketch in the same issue. Rye ‘went over to the cinema
from the conviction that he there would find greater and more extensive opportunities for his
directorial talents than on the stage.’ Rye may have directed one or more films for the
company Eiko in the spring of 1913. In his book on der student von prag, Helmut H.
Diederichs quotes one Joseph Coboken, who recounts a meeting with Rye, to whom he
refers as ‘the future director of der student von pkag.’ Coboken tells of writing a script
for Rye in one day, and Diederichs suggests that the film in question may have been das
abenteuer dreier nachte (‘The Adventure of Three Nights’), passed by the censors in
April 1913. 2U

When Herman Bang was staying in Berlin in 1908, one of his few friends was
his doctor Max Wasbutzki and his wife Bertha. At their house. Bang had become acquainted
with Hanns Heinz Ewers, an aesthete and writer of decadent horror stories. 21 Now Rye was
hired to direct der student von prag. The idea of making a Doppelganger - story was
apparently Wegener’s; it would give him the opportunity of acting with himself. 22 Ewers
then developed a story and wrote a script. Diederichs writes: ‘Ewers was suited like proba-
bly no-one else to create a film draft from the idea of the double.’ 23

But Rye was also eminently suitable as a director. One of his early short stories,
published in 1905, haDoppelganger-story. ‘Teatrum mundi’ is told by a dandy who, on his
way home from a party one night, comes upon a fairground. The biggest tent bears the
legend ‘teatrum mundi.’ Within, lights still shine, casting great shadows on the tent walls.
The dandy enters; it is a travelling waxworks, owned by an old man, who looks a bit like

DER STUDENT
VON PRAG (1913)

156 Casper Tybjerg

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EV1NRUDE - DIE GESCHICHTE EINES ABENTEURERS (1913)

God. The wax dolls are mechanical; they may be animated by pushing a button. The dandy’s
attention is attracted by a particular doll, in a comer:

Then 1 look at the doll’s face, and my breathing suddenly stops, as though it had
hit a wall inside me. It is myself who stands there! The doll, the wax figure, it is
myself. It is my features, my eyes, my frame, my haircut. And as it stands there,
with the thumb and first finger of the left hand in the waistcoat pocket, with the
coat collar turned up and a mocking smile around the slightly crooked left side
of the mouth, it is me, completely, so lifelike in the dead wax. Only the eyes are
somehow smaller than mine. 24

The doll comes to life and starts speaking, the very words with which the dandy commenced
the tale we are reading. Unable to stop the doll, and enraged by its self-satisfied manner, he
smashes it to pieces. The old man appears, smiles sagely and says, ‘Now there is one doll
less in the world. ’

Apart from der student von prag. Rye would make another five films written
by Ewers. Only one, ein sommernachtstraum in unserer Zeit (‘A Midsummer Night’s
Dream of Our Time’), seems to have been in any way light-hearted. In sommernachts-
traum, the faerie characters of Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night' s Dream are introduced
into the modern day. Sadoul claims that this fantasy was originally performed on stage, 2 "’ but
in his book on Ewers and the cinema. Reinhold Keiner describes it as an original filmic
work, 26 which is backed up by the statement in a contemporary advertisment that the film is

157 The Faces ofSteilan Rye

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‘a new creation standing on its own feet/ 27 The programme booklet, which puts Ewers and
Rye side by side, comments on the deeper meaning of the film (and Shakespeare’s play).
Puck emerges as the symbol of the poetic spirit:

He lets two worlds, independent from each other, appear before us: The spirit
realm of Oberon and the everyday world (...) Both worlds mutually complement
each other, one is always the reflection of the other, sometimes a faithful mirror
image, but also then and now a heavily distorted caricature. 2 *

In the film, Grete Berger as Puck wears a costume which bears a close resemblance to the
one worn by Clara Pontoppidan in the open-air performance mentioned above, although it is
possible that they both derive from a Reinhardt staging.

One of the remaining Rye-Ewers collaborations, ... denn alle schuld racht
sich auf erden, was not produced by Deutsche Bioscop like all the others, but by Eiko, and
it has been suggested that this film was made before der student von prag . 29 However,
Keiner and all the printed Ewers sources indicate that der student von prag was Ewer’s
and Rye’s first film together. 30 ... denn alle Schuld racht sich auf erden is about a
woman who avenges herself upon her seducer by destroying his son, gloating over his corpse
at the end. evinrude - die geschichte eines abenteurers was an action-packed melo-
drama, starring Paul Wegener as a villainous adventurer, die eisbraut was the story of an
artist who falls in love with a woman from the distant past whose body has been preserved,
frozen in a block of ice. The censors, not keen on overt necrophilia, banned the film out-
right. 31

The last of the Rye-Ewers films, die augen des ole Brandis, sounds particu-
larly interesting: An artist, played by the renowned actor Alexander Moissi, obtains from
the sinister Coppeliander a device which enables him to see everyone as they really are -
Ladies are whores, friends blackmailers, all are villains and liars; ‘even his own mirror
image mocks him with a hateful grimace.’ 32 On the brink of despair, he discovers that his
innocent model is as pure as she appears to be; in his love for her, the artist regains happi-
ness. The inspiration from E.T.A. Hoffmann is clear, but the device that reveals the true
faces of everyone may originate in a tale from the Arabian Nights, The Mirror of Virgins.
The motif also appears in a fairy play by Ferdinand Raimund, Der Diamant des
Geisterkonigs, adapted by Hans Christian Andersen as Meer end Perler og Guld (1849).
Rye was praised for the tasteful direction of a film which was partly shot on beautiful loca-
tions in Italy. 33

Rye was not solely a director of hair-raising dramas. He had directed comedies
on stage in Copenhagen, and he made film comedies, too, like the recently re-discovered
gendarm mobius, a story about a friendly policeman, bedingung - kein Anhang was a
farce inspired by the tango craze which was sweeping across Europe; both masters and
servants in a large household are gripped by a fever. Ernst Lubitsch had a supporting part as

158 Casper Tyhjerg

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a manservant. The film had the alternative title serenissimus lernt tango. ‘Serenissimus’
was the emperor, and the censors could not accept any suggestions of frivolity in connection
with His Majesty, so the film was banned. 34 There were also plans that Rye should direct a
series of films with the comic Ernst Matray, 35 but only one film was made. It was shown in
Denmark as stodder-baronen (‘The Beggar Baron’), but its original title is unknown.
Matray plays a double role, as a clever thief and an elegant count. They accidentally get
mixed up, the count is arrested, and the thief enjoys himself as the count.

Rye’s last film was das haus ohne tur. The film features secret tunnels and
nefarious villains; the hero is strapped down beneath a deadly pendulum blade (like in Poe’s
tale The Pit and the Pendulum ), but is rescued in the nick of time by the forces of order.
There is also a masked ball and a hypnotic seance; one of the stills reproduced in Lotte
Eisner’s book The Haunted Screen 36 shows the heroine, blindfolded, on a narrow stage with
a featureless black backdrop, observed by a group of upper-class spectators. Other stills
show bizarre scenes played out in front of the black curtain or a skull-faced jester and a ring
of little girls dancing around the heroine. Others show the hero with Napoleon or facing his
own double, both pointing revolvers at each other, one white, one black.

When war broke out in August 1914, Rye enlisted as a volunteer private. He
seems to have felt so well-treated by Germany that he wanted to fight for it. He fought well
and bravely, was promoted and awarded the Iron Cross. 37 On November 14, 1914, Stellan
Rye having been wounded and captured, died in Ypres in a French field hospital. 38

On location in Prague: H.H. Ewers (on the pedestal), Stellan Rye, Paul Wegener. Lyda Salmonova
and an unidentified person (from right to left)

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homunculus:

A Project for a Modem Cinema

Leonardo Quaresima

Research on homunculus encounters a number of objective difficulties whose obvious-
ness is in this case no mere ritual, Directed by Otto Rippert and based on a script by Robert
Reinert for Deutsche Bioscop, homunculus was conceived as a film in six parts, a ‘series
of self-contained dramas interconnected through the title-figure”: the first four (homuncu-
lus, DAS GEHEIMNISVOLLE BUCH, DIE LIEBESTRAGODIE DES HOMUNCULUS, DIE RACHE DES

homunculus) premiered at the Marmorhaus in Berlin in the course of the second half of
1916; the last two (die vernichtung der menschheit and das ende des homunculus)
in the beginning of 1917. The film was re-released in August 1920 in re-edited form (vari-
ous secondary episodes were cut in order to concentrate on the main storyline), and shown
in three parts: der kunstliche mensch, die vernichtung der menschheit and ein ti-
tan enkampf. ‘Our expectations of the cinema have changed and refined in several respects
in the meantime,’ one reads in an advertisement in the Film-Kurier 1 - ‘the Dccla-Bioscop
has now, in totally revising and concentrating the story material, undertaken to adapt this
great work to our new expectations [by realising a film] which has indeed the impact of a
new film.’

What is known of the work today is the fourth part of the 1916 version, plus a
short fragment from the beginning of part five. The research and reconstruction work initi-
ated by the film archive of the former GDR has never been concluded. 3 Any analysis of
homunculus can thus be done mainly on the thematical level in reference to the detailed
plot as it is reported in the programme notes at the time of the film’s first release and, for the
later version, in the Illustrierter Film-Kurier. 4 As far as other aspects — iconographic, stylis-
tic, etc. - are concerned, photos, reviews, and other contextual sources permit only limited
evaluation. Still, it must be said that the existence of at least one part, and thus the possibility
of verifying specific hypotheses on the basis of secondary sources, makes such inferential
work more productive than in so many other cases.

Once this inevitable preliminary remark is made, homunculus appears to us as
one of the most important documents, if not a key film for German film production of the
teens. On the industrial/institutional level, it proposes itself as one of the founding works (at
least for Germany) of the episodic (serial) film, which was to undergo considerable devel-
opments in the course of subsequent years. On the thematic and iconographic level it like-
wise presents a series of motifs that not only anticipated, but were to become (if only be-
cause of the re-release of 1 920) an influence on the German production of the twenties.

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What is immediately evident is the re-working of motifs drawn both from the
tradition of the Gothic novel and the serial novel of the feuilleton. It is a kind of combinatory
adaptation which had fallen on fertile ground also in certain fields of German literature since
the turn of the century (with writers like Gustav Meyrink or Hanns Heinz Ewers, for in-
stance). In fact, it had constituted the proper cinematographic impulse behind some of the
most original works of the Autore nfilm from earlier in the decade (der golem, der student
von prag, ejne VENETiANiSCHE nacht, etc.). In homunculus, this double influence
seems at once more precise and the connections more complex and original. The film refers
itself to the myth of the superhuman, as first established in the popular novel of the 19th
century, which knew it in both a positive, ‘democratic/ version, characteristic for the early
period of the genre (best known from the novels of Sue and Dumas, i.e. for the characters of
Dantes and the Count of Monte Christo) as well as in a negative, malevolent version typified
by the ‘doomed’ heroes of the black novel or the great criminals of the late feuilleton (Fan-
tomas)/ Homunculus is first of all this; a Melmoth-the-Wanderer, a Frankenstein-like crea-
ture and epigone of the popular version of Nietzschean ‘superhumanity’ 6 ; cruel, sadistic and
at the same time the redresser of all manner of wrongs and the defender of the weak. From
this oscillation of roles, this ambiguity and contradiction of behaviour and motive, both the
central character and the film draw their fascination, originality, and effectivity.

From the Gothic novel comes the scientist who pushes himself beyond the limits
of morality and knowledge; the artificial creature (‘my father’s house is a chemical labora-
tory, my parents are the potions and test-tubes of one unscrupulous scholar/ as Homunculus
describes himself 7 ); the superhuman powers (Homunculus possesses extraordinary
strength, ‘he breaks (...) iron sticks in two as if they were made of straw,’ and the extraordi-
nary will power: ‘implacable in will, body, and nerves/ while his ‘magnetic power’ can heal
the sick 8 ). Also from the Gothic novel comes the demonic and devastating personality, the
curse he puts on nature, and his origins that result in an obsessive urge for doing evil. The
Frankenstein creature 9 is in this sense the ancestor and begettor of this character. The Nos-
feratu of Galeen/Mumau is its direct successor. This last link seems very transparent.
Homunculus’ features in numerous and obvious ways are already those of the vampire from
1921. From physiognomic traits (the raised eyebrows and the heavy make-up around the
eyes, the claw-like hands, the high forehead and the straight shoulders) and iconographic
solutions (the contrast between the face and the white hands on the dark body, the figure that
slowly emerges from a stairway or appears framed by an arch - still un-expressionistically
round and undistorted), to solutions of mise en scene (the effects of spot-lighting the face
from below) and narrative sequence (Homunculus spied upon - by the young female pro-
tagonist of the fourth part - while he is resting, exhausted and fully dressed - still in a bed,
but already as if in a crypt).

From the sensational novel comes revenge as the central motive driving the ac-
tions of the protagonist. As already mentioned, his artificial origin that has given him life
also makes him feel betrayed, because it condemns him to alterity, making him incapable of

161 HOMUNCULUS: A Project for a Modern Cinema

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showing or experiencing love, and therefore barring him from the core-concerns of humanity:
his creator and all mankind become the target of his revenge. Like the protagonists of the
feuilleton novel. Homunculus is also driven by positive impulses: ‘He does good, but one
takes his actions for deeds of evil. Of course, his actions are out of the ordinary. 7 i0 He is
capable of great acts of generosity: he is moved to tears at the sight of children (he had
sworn to kill the first human he encountered, but at the sight of the little ones he renounces
his resolve); he gives protection to orphan girls or those chased away from home, and he is
ready to let them go, after restoring them to the affection of their loved ones. Just like so
many heroes of the feuilleton, a double identity is constructed for him."

The motif of the double extends beyond narrative construction and character
personality. In the last part of the Film, for instance, the protagonist is pitted against a second
artificial human who in the end will fight him in a titanic battle (‘in which nature partici-
pates with spectacularly elementary events 7 ' 2 ) and which results in the death of both. The
spectator will easily note that the battle is ‘the fight of Homunculus against himself, against
his own, newly bom Self.' 13 We are at the heart of the most intimate sequence of the feuille-
ton novel: ‘the infinite battle between [good and evil] neutralizes itself by its very self-
contradiction, just as in this all-too perfectly dichotomized universe what is happening is the
fight of the Self with the same Self. (...) Realistically or symbolically, the hero’s opponent is
nobody other than himself.’ 14

The universe of the sensationalist novel is a universe where the feminine figure
has a narrowly circumscribed role in line with the most classical typologies of melodrama
(the virgin, ‘innocence betrayed,’ and the fallen woman). It is a reduction which finds its full
confirmation in Rippert’s film. The stereotype did not escape contemporary viewers either:
‘female figures (...) crop up and almost as soon disappear again. (...) All of them remain
colourless.’ 15 It is therefore no accident that a film parody, shown in Vienna in 1916,
homu n ku meschen , suppressed the male roles, substituting them with female equivalents.
The scientist is a woman who gives life to an artificial creature: her assistant is a woman (the
equivalent of the ‘Famulus’ Edgar Rodin who accompanies Homunculus in almost all his
adventures, until he separates himself from him and becomes his opponent in the end).
When this female assistant, out of negligence, drops the egg (!) from which Homunculus is
supposed to be bom, she quickly substitutes a real child instead: after 16 years of ‘captivity’
this child, now a young woman, returns to her parents, free at last to marry the man after her
‘Homunculi st heart’... 16

When we look at the mise-en-scene of homunculus (of course, only insofar as
it can be judged on the basis of the available parts of the film), it, too, seems marked by
forms of popular image-making: tableau scenes (the delegation of the representation of the
people that go to ‘parliament’; the young woman who prays in the woods), illustrations
from popular novels (an antagonist of Homunculus put in chains in a prison). One also
recognizes forms of popular theatrical staging: persons placed in the center of the frame, the
striking of emphatic poses, naively melodramatic performances. One frequently notices

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Olaf F0nss in homunculus

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163

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solutions to the problems of spatial organization typical of the cinema of the teens (e.g.
scenes dominated and divided by a huge central and frontal staircase).

Yet homunculus also presents unconventional and unexpected solutions. The
natural exteriors, for instance, can function as original stylistic articulations and dramatic
developments (in the tradition of the Autorenfilm or Scandinavian cinema). Among these,
particularly remarkable (in the fourth part) is the space of the quarry , 17 a kind of a vast
amphitheatre in which the riot of the crowd is set and their encounter with the hero. Given
the incoherence of such sequences in respect of narrative continuity, l!i this space materializ-
es in a total different way from the stereotypical atmospheric transcriptions of action into
space. Not only do we find a certain spatial logic, but the contrast of the white of the rocks
and the black cloak of Homunculus gives the encounter a precise expressive register (about
which more will be said in a minute), homunculus also uses calculated effects of framing;
it plays with light and with contrast, in order to give an internal movement to the frame and
thus underpin mobility within the compositional ratios of the screen (the crowd that breaks
into the frame from below and from the dark recesses of an alley, pushing themselves into a
close-up). The film adapts explicitly figurative references: examples from genre painting
(the ruins of the mill at the beginning of the fifth part); romantic figurations (the protagonist
enveloped in his large cloak and set against a sharply outlined landscape - like in a painting
of Caspar David Friedrich); or in general ‘pictorial’ solutions, for instance, when Homuncu-
lus is framed in close-up at the frame edge, while in the background the serpentine of the
crowd that chases him draws itself: a solution close to the one in the famous sequence in
Eisenstein’s ivan the terrible.

In particular, the film’s will to style produces complex effects of clair-obscur lM to
which relevant expressive meaning is attributed. The scene in prison already mentioned,
with the antagonist chained to the wall, is totally constructed on the contrast of light and
shadow, of black and white: Homunculus stays in the dark, while slowly the light envelops
his opponent (and also the evening dress of the latter, so improbable in such a situation that
one must assume its presence has a functional role). The effect is perhaps somewhat naive
and not fully controlled on the expressive level since in a subsequent scene, composed with-
in a similar lighting scheme, we see Homunculus chained in the same position and in the
same light as his antagonist . 211 Nonetheless, the lighting constitutes one of the unquestiona-
ble stylistic triumphs of the film. A remarkable (if figuratively conventional) effect of clair-
obscur is also used to fix the light that emerges from the window-bars of the prison in
another sequence. After his rescue, the black figure of the protagonist (little more than a
silhouette) stands out against a bright background, the broken chains still dangling from his
wrists, an icon in which once again motifs of rebellion and liberation intermingle equivocal-
ly w'ith negative, black and demonic traits.

The stylisation, the reduction of a figure to a profile, a silhouette, must constitute
in effect one of the recurring and characteristic expressive choices of the film. We find them
back in the visualisation of death on horseback against the open skyline at the beginning of

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part five, 21 Evidence for this is given in the descriptions of the programmes: ‘A mysterious
shadow, whose origins the assistant is trying in vain to ascertain, is falling across the room.
Far, faraway, out there, by the mountain grave, an uncanny silhouette disengages itself from
the clear evening sky - Homunculus,’ one reads in a passage about the second part. 22 At the
same time, this play on light is remarked upon also in the reviews of the time, always in
relation to the second part, where the repeated use of silhouettes is adduced as evidence
(‘whose most magnificent examples are the crowd at the edge of the mountain, and the final
tableau’ 23 ). The description calls attention to a scene in which ‘the shadow of the restless
wanderer suddenly becomes visible,’ judged to be ‘one of the most powerful [sequences] we
have seen in a film for a long time.’ 24 The final battle between the older and the younger
Homunculus is similarly described: the figures are ‘etched into the sky like silhouettes.’ 25

Carl Hoffmann was the cameraman of the film, and to him must go the credit for
such solutions in the first place (this, too, already noted by the commentators at the time). It
is hardly necessary to remark how - not least thanks to the intense activity of this same
cameraman - these stylistic effects will find wide application and expressive mastery in the
German cinema after the war. 26

These high-culture aspects of style present on the level of the mise-en- scene are
not isolated elements, no mere ornament used to embellish a product created solely on the
basis of ‘low-culture’ and popular parameters. Neither is it simply the strategy of melodra-
ma (to which is added a raised tone, a sublime register) which by itself can justify such
formal elaboration, homunculus participates, if one looks closely, in a more ambitious
project in which the integration between popular and high culture stylistic dimensions plays
a strategic role. Nothing less than Faust II by Goethe 27 is cited to vouchsafe the film’s liter-
ary attributions 28 ; Lessing’s drama theory is invoked to explain the mechanisms of pity and
terror 29 ; the film is located in the development of the Autorenfdm , or at any rate, it is inter-
preted as a crucial step in the process of involving writers and dramatists in the cinema
(among whom Reinert is placed, as writer for the theatre and ‘modem man of letters’); the
film positions itself at this turning point of German cinema 30 in order to help legitimate it as
a bona fide art form. 31 This not only forges a link between homunculus and the 1913
Autorenfilme , but also points forward to caligari. In a review of the 1920 re-release from
Der Drache, homunculus is seen as one of the happy manifestations of a tendency that
gives body to the most intimate essence of cinema, defined as the representation of the
fantastic, the metaphysical, the irrational. 32 This is no isolated position, but reflected by
other reviewers who in the postwar years also pinpoint the ‘mystical’ and ‘fantastic’ dimen-
sion of the new medium as its ’essence’ and cite homunculus as evidence and one of the
most convincing proofs. 33 In the context of the debates about expressionist cinema and the
resistances against cinema evolving in this direction, the film was even judged as too de-
manding and intellectual for a popular audience; ‘I heard the audience laugh as the super-
natural creature (...) with his bare fist smashed down a door and broke in two a wagon shaft
as if it was a match. They probably thought this was a strongman showing off and did not

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have a due what was really at stake.” 4 - l l fear that this part [the second, in the 1920
version] in particular, with its strong inwardness, may well not appeal to the general public.
No doubt, a certain spiritual sensibility and culture are necessary, in order to fully grasp the
intentions of the author and the actor.”- 15

Indeed, some aspects of the film seem to gather salient motifs of theatrical ex-
pressionism or, rather, draw on the same deeper stratum that nourished theatrical expres-
sionism since when homunculus was produced, some of the major texts of expressionism
were still to be published, while others ( Der Sohn , Der Bettler ) would only subsequently
attain the impact they did when expressionist mise-en-scene had given them a definitive
interpretation.

Among the echoes are the father/son conflict (Homunculus first of all pours out
his hatred against those who gave him life, condemning him to unhappiness); the theme of
the revolution (the protagonist, in the guise of the leader of the mob, incites the masses to a
revolt ‘against capital.’ One interuile reads; ‘the globe shall tremble from the peoples’
wrath...’ 16 ). Similarly, the motif of mankind’s regeneration, to rest on the foundation of a
new humanity arising from the ashes of the earth, devastated by fire and sword (the new race
being symbolized by a couple of young people raised on a desert island 37 ) adds another
possible point of contact between the film and the thematic universe that expressionism was
about to develop.

We thus find ourselves confronted with an interesting paradox, homunculus,
prototype of the serial film, the privileged place for the development of narrative and of
themes belonging to popular, sensationalist imagination, tries to construct for itself a strict
relation with a high culture tradition and thereby seems to echo the most ‘modem’ and
‘revolutionary’ tendencies of the contemporary German culture.

Some of the results of this convergence were the film’s communicative effective-
ness and the fact that the film became interpretable as uncannily topical. This symptomatic
relevance was in fact registered already at the time, before the film and its hero became
transparent to the sociological and psychological reading of Kracauer, for whom ‘the Ger-
mans resembled Homunculus,..,’ 38 and before its radicalism was once more used to general-
ize about film and society. 39 Presenting the new 1920 version, the Mustrierter Film-Kurier
remarked on the ‘astonishing topicality’ of the film: ‘Rarely did a work show more deary
and unambiguously, where the spirit of strife and disunity will lead, if it is not combatted in
time with all the means available to man.’ 40 - ‘Such Homunculi - even if not quite display-
ing the same unique capabilities - are not that infrequent’ as a critic from Film und Presse
wrote, also insisting on the links of the film ‘with the generally sorry state of human socie-
ty.’ 41

Even if we treat the available evidence with caution, it would seem that the film
was a commercial success, with a three-week continuous run at the Marmorhaus in Berlin
and a no less impressive result in Prague. 41 Reviews from the twenties speak of the film as
having enjoyed international approval, 43 which seems confirmed by the fact that it was

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thought important enough for a parody. 44 The strongest proof of the film’s success is in any
case its re-release four years later (a phenomenon sufficiently rare for the cinema of the
time), although it has to be admitted that this success was not repeated in 1920, for ‘[the
positive qualities of the film] proved insufficient to awaken all that much interest in the
film.’ 45 By then, the logical coherence of the story was cause for complaint, 46 as was the
length of the intertitles 47 the performances, 48 and the conception of the protagonist (on
which especially Der Drache heaped a good deal of scorn). 4 ' 4

It would seem, then, that homunculus played a key role in the process of rede-
fining genres of German cinema between the pre-war period and Weimar, Belonging, as
indicated, to those films that pioneered the episodic film in Germany (which is the aspect
most often commented on by subsequent reviewers), it remains at the same time one of the
reference points for a phenomenon that belongs to the post-war period, namely the identifi-
cation of genres no longer on thematic grounds but by way of stylistic definitions. 30 Con-
temporary sources hold the film up as the model for a cinematic genre remaking itself in the
image of romanticism, giving historians like Lotte Eisner the cue to do research along these
lines. The interest of this circumstance lies in the fact that whereas normally the cinema is
regarded as merely following a trend first started in the other arts, in the general return to a
romantic aesthetics, the cinema here comes to be seen as a stimulus and vanguard: ‘film was
the first (even if reviled) artform to go down the path of romanticism,’ becoming something
like an active agent, the motor: ‘film is well on its way to rehabilitate romanticism and give
it a new interpretation for the future.’ SJ This turn to romanticism was also seen as the optimal
way of defining the new art form’s specificity: ‘the fact that film in its innermost essence
strives after romanticism, lies in its nature. (...) In this way, the cinema will find its way out
of the initial confusion, when it chased after sensationalist effects, to arrive at the grand
form of romantic style.’ 52

This concerns a transition of great interest. The text in question is one of the
many attempts to define the identity of the new medium based on its limits and constraints
(the lack of the word, the difficulty of attaining in film the logical, intellectual rigour of
argument and language), which directly led to positing its ‘natural’ affinity with the uni-
verse of the fantastic. This has less to do with trying to legitimize the cinema as ‘art’ and
more with the belief that the cinema was destined to become the new technical-expressive
form through which the romantic aesthetics could renew itself and continue to expand. And
while these debates found their fullest manifestations only in the early 1920s, they invaria-
bly had recourse to the films of the teens, with the following titles serving as evidence:
ahasver (dir. by the same Reinert, and again an episodic film, 1917), Theophrastus Pa-
racelsus (Joseph Delmont, 1916), der grune mann von Amsterdam (Otto Rippert,
1916), and die memoiren des satans (1917, adapted from W, Hauff and also directed by
Robert Heymann). Among them, the inaugurating role belongs to homunculus, setting in
train a process that was to deeply mark and identify the German cinema.

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Julius Pinschewer: A Trade-mark Cinema

Jeanpaul Goergen

The advertising film is practically as oid as the cinema itself. Already in 1896 Georges
Melies made advertising films built on the principles of trick-amazement, of the fabulous
and the grotesque, for example, letters swirling in the air and finally organizing themselves
into a brand name; Melies' son was able to demolish huge amounts of chocolate; and, with
the help of a hair-lotion, the bald-headed filmmaker turns into an Orang-Utan- like being, 1
In 1896/7 Oskar Messter showed the advertising film bade zu hause, which
promoted a ‘wave-pool-swing' (Wellenbadschaukel) of the Moosdorf & Hochhausler com-
pany from Berlin-Treptowc In August 1911 Paul Effing, engineer for cinematography, con-
templated the use of trick and special effects for cinema advertisement, 3 Late in 1911 the
Internationale Kinematographen-Gesellschaft in Berlin offered to produce advertising trick-
films of this kind. 4 Already at that early point in cinema history, the advertising film must
have been solidly established, as suggested by a report from January 1912, which mentions
the astonishingly rapid dissemination and unprecedented popularity of the cinematograph as
a means of advertising; there is already supposed to be an ‘ambitious organisation distribut-
ing advertising films to c. 500 cinemas in Germany and Switzerland, which are shown in the
same just as the regular programs.’^ Whether this already referred to the company of Julius
Pinschewer remains uncertain, but occurs rather unlikely if one considers his biography,

Pinschewer, born 15 September 1883 in Hohensalza/district Bromberg, studied
political science in Berlin and Wurzburg. He described how he came to found his entrepre-
neurial career on the advertising film:

It was in 1910, when the author of the present, during one of his first visits to a
movie theatre, was struck by the idea of bringing to life posters and trademarks
for commerce and industry with the help of film, and to distribute and exhibit the
thus produced films for advertising purposes in public cinemas. The first adver-
tising films, produced at own financial risk were projected at the gathering of the
Reklameschutzverein in Berlin in 1911. These were films of 20 to 30 metres in
length and mostly performed by living persons. But among those first films was
also an animated advertising film: it showed a real ring-shaped poundcake
which soon transformed considerably in size, which, as revealed by a written
text, was to be credited to the use of Dr. Oetkers baking powder. 6

The first traces of Pinschewer 's film economical activities can be found in April 1912: Ex-
plicitly referring to the industrial branch ‘film advertising,’ Julius Pinschewer became mem-

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her of the ‘Verein Deutscher Reklamefachleute.’ His company was situated in Berlin-
Schoneberg, Innsbrucker Str. 19, 7 Already in the second half of 1913, Pinschewer placed his
first, still modestly sized advertisements in the press: ‘film advertising, the most modem,
most effective and cheapest advertising in selected cinemas in all parts of Germany. Refer-
ences from the biggest domestic and foreign companies.’* In 1913/14 he opened an office in
London, where the advertising film as a means of product promotion is as yet unknown. y
Earlier still, on 23 February 1910, he bad placed a patent announcement in the London
Illustrated Official Journal for ‘Improvements relating to a method of presenting animated
advertisements.' 10

Showing How Soap Lathers Up

Pinschewer’s idea was less the combination of advertising and film than the ‘systematic
distribution of advertising films in the cinemas.’ 11 And he knew very well that advertising
films, too, had to be designed artistically, in order to be accepted by clients and audiences
alike. To have managed to steer the advertising film through commerce and industry, to
cinema owners and, last but not least, towards the cinema audiences was Pinschewer’s pio-
neering achievement.

Alongside his first press advertisements, in August 1913 Julius Pinschewer pub-
lished a comprehensive essay about the benefits and acceptance of cinematographic adver-
tising.

Film allows industrialists and businessmen to express in a lively and thus very
impressive way what one used to say with dead letters or drawings. In this way
an important helper is given to industry and business, not only because of its
impressive educational effect, but also its stimulus for memory. Film is capable
of showing how the soap lathers up, how chocolate tastes, how fine the sewing
machine works, how to handle the preserving pan, how charmingly clothes hug
the living body, or how cleanly food is packed by a useful machine, etc. (...) Film
advertising is especially suitable for such products which enter circulation under
a particular brand, or which constitute in type and origin a ‘class of their own’
and are available everywhere and always at fixed prices. 12

Apart from such thoughts, Pinschewer undertook statistical polls, which were executed in
600 cinemas by an unspecified ‘World Company.’ According to this investigation, cinema
audiences indeed notice advertising fdms and follow their content with interest and curios-
ity, the films find approval and sometimes even open applause. Within the audiences ‘the
lower and upper middle-class as well as upper classes’ - i.e, a wealthy public - outnumber
workers by far:

Generally the audiences are composed of people whose conception is more de-
pendent on sense perception, and who therefore show less interest for reading

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newspapers or books, or for the spoken word than for the easily understandable
depiction in film. It is also for this reason that the woman of every age and social
standing is a friend of the cinema. 13

In 1914 Julius Pinschewer moved from Schbnebcrg to the centre of Berlin. In the 1914
directory he figures as the ow ner of the film studio at the Donhoffplatz, advertisement pub-
lisher and head of the Harry Walden-film company, SW 19, Jerusalemer Str. 13. The ‘Her-
stellung und Vertrieb von Harry Walden-Films, G.m.b.H’ had been founded in 1912/13,
dedicated to the ‘production and exploitation of cinematographic films in which Harry Wal-
den appears or plays a role.’ 14 Only one film from this company could be traced; 15 this is
probably all Pinschewer ever undertook to gain a foothold on the fiction film-market;
throughout his lifetime he was to produce almost exclusively advertising and industrial
films.

Pinschewer’s studio at the Donhoffplatz, formerly owned by a photographer,
was a rooftop-studio typical for the time and was fully glazed for the puipose of optimal
lighting. According to contemporary photographs, the studio was big and spacious. 16 It con-
tained a fully fledged film factory with studios for shooting, a meter-high tricktable, office
space for more than one designer, for the production of sets, and for film development and
copying. Pinschewer remained in the Jerusalemer StraBe until 1925; it was here that he
founded the Vaterlandischer Filmvertrieb and, in 1918, the Werbefilm GmbH for the artistic
advertising film.

Aesthetics of the Advertising Film

Front his experimentations carried out in this studio, two central priorities crystallized lor
him the nature of advertising film: ‘clear and intelligible content at the shortest extension
and interesting, gripping subject matter, which, if possible, should adapt to the taste of the
cinema audience.’ 17 Two genres had emerged: the trick film which shows events ‘utterly
impossible in real life,’ as well as the Realfdm which worked towards the ‘highest possible
realism’ in its representation of an event. Pinschewer’s credo was that top quality standards
have to be applied to the advertising film.

For shooting an advertising film, the best light is just good enough. (...) Experi-
ence has taught us that a combination of mercury- vapour lamp light with the
light of specially fitted arc lamps is most suited. In the construction of sets and
decors, such as doors, windows, chimneys, etc., one should strive for the most
plastic effect possible, where the background has to remain as indifferent as
possible in order not to distract from the action. (...) An important part is direc-
tion, which has to be especially adapted to the shooting of an advertising film.
Artistic and commercial principles have to merge in this point. First of all, ut-
most brevity is required. (...) For the film to be gripping and not boring, it is
necessary that what is to be said is clearly expressed to the viewer in the shortest

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time possible. For this reason also the selection of actors has to be a very careful
one. If for the entertainment film average actors may suffice, the advertising film
requires only the most gifted dramatic artists. Every wrong movement means a
delay in schedule. The actor has to be capable of expressing himself in very
limited time. The less generously the advertising film deals with time, the more
effective it will be, 18

Therefore, advertising films should not be longer than 30 meters, which corresponds to a
duration of 90 seconds at most - in order not to bore audiences 19 and to make the purchase
of advertising films palatable to cinema owners. The latter feared tosses in profit, because
the programme, prolonged by the advertising films, could not be repeated as often as before.
And as a result, around 1912 there circulated the lamento that cinema owners could not be
convinced to purchase advertising films, ‘neither for money nor for good words.’ 20

Part of this effort to foster the acceptance of the advertising film was a lecture on
‘Film as a Means of Advertising’ which Pinschewer delivered on 14 May 19 16 at the month-
ly gathering of the Verein Deutscher Reklamefachleute, and in the presence of representa-
tives of the Reichstag, the Ministry of War and police headquarters. 21 Speaking at the Un-
ion-Theater in FriedrichstraBe 180, Pinschewer above all emphasized the future mission of
advertising after the war, when it will be the task to reclaim lost foreign markets. Pinschew-
er, who is introduced as ‘the leading expert in this special branch of the advertisement in-
dustry,’ showed approximately 25 advertising films on this occasion, promoting Eduard
Beyer (ink), Continental Caoutchouc Co. (car tyres), F.A. Grunfeld (a big Berlin confec-
tionist), Kathreiner, Komfranck, Kgl. Fachingen, Maggi, Sarotti, and other important com-
panies. Pinschewer announced in this talk that the majority of German cinemas in about 300
cities were affiliated to his organisation, including all Union theaters.

Pinschewer (2nd from right)
at work in his studio (1914)

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In order to increase the acceptance of the advertising film with cinema owners,
Pinschewer freely committed himself by contract not to show more than one advertising
film per programme. Furthermore, in only making propaganda for companies ‘whose sig-
nificance and usefulness for the national economy is assured and whose product representa-
tion in film can be done tastefully,' 22 he put himself under voluntary self-control.

Already by 1916 Pinschewer was able to list the diverse stylistic and expressive
devices of his films: trick films and films for which ‘the brush of the painter and the chalk of
the designer are used’; films ‘in which certain events, full of atmosphere, constitute the
introduction to the finally appearing advertising slogan’; farcical and grotesque narratives;
films for the propagation of comprehensive thoughts and complex ideas, 23

One particularly important client for advertising films was Heinrich Franck
Sohne GmbH, on whose behalf Pinschewer produced numerous films for the propagation of
semolina and com coffee until 1916, The films had titles like der verdacht, ein-

QUARTIERUNG, DER WUNDERVOLLE DEFT, DEK SC HUGH TERN E FRE1ER, and each depicted a

short, grotesquely sharpened scene with the advertising message comprising the surprise
gag at the end.

Thus, it is primarily great businessmen, owners of shipyards and castles, in brief,
people in the prime of their lives, whose fates are depicted in the films. From this
results the practical application only to show well-situated people as protago-
nists of the advertising film for Komfranck and Franck-semolina, whose actions
appear to the economically and socially less well-placed viewer especially ex-
emplary and commendable. 24

For exactly this reason, the popular actress Anna Miiller-Lincke, who already in her out-
ward appearance represented the prosperous middle-class woman, starred as the leading
lady in der neue hut:

Once more, Anna wants to get a new hat from her husband. Among the hats that
the milliner sent her to choose from, the one decorated with a beautiful heron
suits her really too well! But this time Anna’s husband remains hard and unre-
lenting. In this situation, she employs a means which has proved effective in
similar cases in the past: she swoons. The husband knows what to do. He rushes
out of the room and soon returns with a cup of a nice-smelling drink which he
holds under the nose of his unconscious wife. And you see: Anna cannot with-
stand the tempting smell, she is attracted by it, like the medium by its hypnotist,
and savours, now fully revitalised, the mysterious drink which reveals itself to be
‘Kriegs-Komfranck’ coffee. 2S

In dek astronom, shot in the observatory of Berlin -Treptow, the scholar discovers obscure
signs and lines on the surface of the sun, which... spell the logo of the ‘Aechten Franck’
coffee! In spur in der kuche, a packet of Komfranck coffee, a coffee grinder, the can, the

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pot with hot water, as well as a cup, the milk-can and the sugar go off on their own; the cup
tries to escape and breaks into pieces which, as if by magic, put themselves together again,
so that the ‘Komfranck’ can be enjoyed! 26

In 1962 the ‘Institut fur Bild und Filin in Wissenschaft und Unterricht’ in Mu-
nich produced a three-part film dokumente zur geschichte des werbefilms which sum-
marized 14 films from the archive of Julius Pinsc hewer. The accompanying booklet was
written by Fritz Kempe; it was the first appreciation of the life and work of Julius Pinschew-
er. Kempe presents corsets gebr. lewandowsky as the earliest still extant advertising
film of Pinschewer and dates it 1910. In the style of animated pictures one sees first the
clothing shop from outside, then the elegant interior where two ladies are admiring them-
selves in new garments, followed by another outdoor shot revealing the shop window front
plus company plaque. 27

Pinschewer’s farce carmoe tut wohl is dated by Kempe 1911. The bourgeois-
sedate husband complains about rheumatic pains. Whereupon his wife administers a potion
after which he almost immediately feels relieved, so much so that he boisterously attacks
the maid, hugging and kissing her. The wife, however, loses consciousness upon this sudden
change. The cause of this new-found vitality; ‘Carmol does you good!’

in 1912 der nahkasten was produced, in which needle and thread automatically
sew on Prym’s press-studs and demonstrate their stability. Cameraman Guido Seeber was
responsible for the trick shots. Fritz Kempe describes this film as being ‘of archaic conclusive-
ness’ and praises it as ‘one of the most beautiful documents of the early trick film anywhere.’ 28

Vaterlandischer Filmvertrieb and Werbefilm GmbH

With his thoughts on the subject, Pinschewer takes the floor in the debate about the central-
isation of political propaganda early in 1915. His primary concern is the forceful opposition
to hostile propaganda with all possible means. For Pinschewer, propaganda (‘the activity of
states, which aims at influencing the political views of inhabitants of one’s own, hostile or
neutral countries’) is a self-evident means in the service of warfare. The means employed to
this end, like image, photography, film, flyers, are not different from those already in use for
some time in commerce and industry. Film is of particular importance, because it ‘works
more effectively than the still image’ and thanks to its universality is particularly suited ‘as
a means for international political propaganda’ 29 :

If one considers that the cinema is today throughout all countries the most pop-
ular place of mass entertainment, and that cinema audiences recruit themselves
predominantly from the middle and lower classes, whose judgement is much
easier to influence than the judgement of higher classes, one would have to look
upon film as a first-rank means of political propaganda. (...) It would be desira-
ble that Films were systematically received and distributed by a still to be estab-
lished central organ for the information of the neutral foreign countries, whereby

173 Julius Pinschewer

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e.g. the fairy-tales about the miserable conditions in German war prison camps
could be destroyed for good; furthermore, images of the destroyed areas of East
Prussia, of the rationing for the wounded prisoners, etc. 30

During the subsequent period, Pinschewer put his expertise fully into the service of the
Fatherland. As an advertising expert, he served as member of the advisory council of the
Deutsche Bank, participated in confidential meetings between politics and industry, and
developed proposals about how to influence prisoners of war in the German interest. 31 In
1916 Pinschewer founded the Vaterlandischer Filmvertrieb 12 in order to support the cinemato-
graphic propaganda for war bonds. 33 Films produced under the supervision of the Reichsbank
were distributed post free and given for projection to cinema owners free of charge. 34

Apart from films for war loans, Pinschewer also produced and distributed advertis-
ing films on more general subjects, such as die DEUTSCHE somme rzeit (early 1916, length;
one reel) and unter den fittichen des Berliner krippen-vereins (June 1918, length; 126
meters). 35 In a letter to the Foreign Office from 20 January 1919, in which Pinschewer offers
his services as a specialist in matters of the advertising film, he also mentions ‘a number of
films promoting cashless payments, films for the U-boat donation, the Ludendorff donation,
the donation for German war and civil prisoners’ as well as one film ‘on behalf of the commit-
tee of the women’s organisations in Germany, which promotes female suffrage.’ 36 Pinschewer
boasts that thanks to a ‘carefully executed organisation,’ he is in a position to have films and
still advertising images projected in all German cinemas and variety-cinemas. From one in-
ventory of cinemas associated to his organisation, which is added to this letter, it follows that
in the district of GroB-Beriin alone, 18 cinemas with more than 400 seats and 28 cinemas with
less than 400 seats were showing films from Pinschewer.

On 24 April 1918 the trade paper Der Kinematograph reported that Julius Pin-
sehewer’s Vaterlandischer Filmvertrieb has joined the Ufa conglomerate, while remaining
an autonomous and independent company under the previous management. 37 Also in 1918
Julius Pinschewer established the Werbefilm GmbH for the purpose of the ‘creation and
distribution of artistic advertising films.’ 3K

Pinschewer was a producer who in almost all of his films was responsible for the
artistic supervision. Although he ‘never signed them, all ideas for his films came from him, he
wrote the scripts and directed; each scene was checked by him, and corrected if necessary,
right after the material had been developed.’ 39 His first advertising films were mostly gro-
tesque scenes - on which he worked with amongst others Anna Mtiller-Lincke, Olga Engl,
Ernst Sachs, Inge Miron, Kate Haack, Erwin Paul Biswanger, Berthold Rose, Otto Gebiihr,
Curt and Ilse Bois, Alfred Braun, and Asia Nielsen, From 1918 onwards he specialized in
animation films, with a strong preference for fairy-tale and exotic subjects. From the very
beginnings Pinschewer promoted brand-name products and only from 1924 on, also more
general subjects. In 1920 he claimed to possess the exhibition monopoly for more than 800
German cinemas with an attendance figure of approximately four million people per week -
making him the undisputed ‘brand leader’ in the field of cinema advertising.

174 Jeanpaul Goergen

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Newsreel Images of the Military and War,
1914-1918

Wolfgang Miihl-Benninghaus

The Military before the War

In the nationally oriented culture of the Kaiserreich , with its great enthusiasm for all things
military, battle, war and heroism, flickering images of torpedo boats at high sea, troops
returning from the spring parade or battleship launches were shown with great success on
Germany's first cinema screens. 1 This gave rise to a regular stream of films featuring Wil-
helmine forces, initially from Skladanowsky and Messter, and later from other companies.
The filming of military set-pieces such as uberfall auf scheoss boncourt, theodor
korner, die schlacht bei Gettysburg or lieb vaterland, magst ruhig sein 2 provided
the military with thematic and representational accounts of the many images of military
motifs. 3

Alongside industry, which used film as a means of advertising its products and
even its factories, 4 the military was one of the first sectors to use film to serve its own
purposes, even before the war. As well as having a military value, these films were intended
to ‘not only cultivate public awareness of the land and sea forces, but also to popularise
armament,' Events captured on film served to relive actions in distant garrisons, which
members of the military and the public might have heard about but not have been able to
participate in. 5 Footage of military manoeuvres demonstrated how various arms and weap-
onry could be used to best advantage. With the aid of trick shots, ‘living maps’ were created
to instruct the viewers in tactics, re-living such famous battles as Sedan and Austerlitz. 6

The films produced by the military pre-1914 can be divided into two broad cat-
egories: the training film and the ‘popularisation’ film. In any case, many training films
were also shown to cinema audiences and were employed as a form of educational film for
the general public.

One of the reasons for the technical advances in cinematography during the war
was its application for military purposes. This was particularly true of the serial image cam-
eras (‘Reihenbildner’), developed by Messter in 1915. 7 Although this type of military appli-
cation remained a relatively isolated case and (compared to World War II) few decisive film-
technological advances were due to the war, the institution cinema did experience an impor-
tant increase in status under the influence of the men-and-machine battles in the trenches.
The massive mobilisation of the nation’s forces gave rise to a process of linking war and
ideology which had been unknown until that point. It is in the framework of this ‘total
mobilisation'* that, from October 1914 onwards, war footage first appeared in Germany’s

175 Newsreel Images of the Military and War

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cinemas. These films later became divided into the categories of educational, orienting and
propaganda films, 9 although in practice it was not always easy to differentiate between these
categories.

The First War Newsreels

The cinematic trade press was extremely reluctant to carry out its first assignment in the
service of the war when it came to mobilisation. "'There was little of that enthusiasm for war
one knows about from other sections of the population in the first days of August 1914,
Sections of the film industry, though, did succumb to the demand for films which would
help transport the audience on a wave of patriotic fervour which struck Germany in August
1914, This is indicated by decisions to remove French and English films from theatre pro-
grammes" and discussions held at the time about the future of German film. 12

Anticipating a huge public interest in war films, the Berlin-based branch of the
American Biograph Company asked the military command’s permission on 3 1 July 19 1 4 to
shoot action scenes on the future fronts. In August this request was followed by a series of
other applications. 1 - Still in the same month, production companies including Scherl’s Eiko
managed to negotiate the dispatch of camera operators to the front. 14 Other firms sent their
cameramen with the first consignment of troops without going through bureaucratic formal-
ities. All attempts by these operators to join troops at the front line, however, came up
against the authority of the General Staff. The fear of espionage and a certain lack of aware
ness of the civilian population’s expectations meant that in the first weeks of the war report-
ing from the front was limited to military communiques and press conferences. A mere 15
carefully vetted journalists were given permission to present more extensive press informa-
tion from the front. ,s This was an initial indication of what was to typify the whole war: the
top military command saw' the written press as the most important medium for the presenta-
tion of war reporting. Partly as a result of discussions raised by cinema reformers concern-
ing the relative merits and demerits of cinema, for much of the military, as well as among
broad sections of the public, cinematography was considered a questionable and underde-
veloped medium which could serve only as a secondary form of publicity. 16 In September/
October 1 9 14 Oskar Messter was selected to serve as advisor to the General Staff on cinema
affairs. From this point on, several film firms were given permission to shoot footage at the
front. Film companies who had gone to the front at the beginning of the war without official
permission were obliged to recall their operators and forbidden to show their films in cine-
mas. 17 The criteria for licensing war cinematographers were announced on 6 October 1914:

1 . The company must be completely German, must be controlled by men of a patri-
otic, German persuasion, must have sufficient capital and work within the Ger-
man currency area.

2. The company must use only German recording equipment, German manufactur-
ing apparatus and German film stock, and the entire factory must be company-
owned.

176 Wolfgang M u hi- Be n n i ng ha us

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3. The company must not only have a reputation for reliability in every respect, but
must also be responsible for dispatching representatives to the theatre of war.
Photographing in the theatre of war and in territories captured by German troops
is subject to the approval of the chief of the general staff of the military in the
field. Applications should be addressed to the press department of the military’s
deputy general staff. The recording of cinematographic material requires a spe-
cial licence. Photographs and cinematographic footage may only be reproduced,
distributed and exhibited with the prior permission of the military censor. The
activity of photographers and reporters without a pass from the general staff is
strictly prohibited, 18

From the daily press one can gather that among the firms in possession of the necessary
papers were Messter-Films, Eiko Films, the Wtirttemberg -based Express-Film, which had
already been making ‘newsreels’ before the war, and the Bavarian company Martin Knopf,
Munich. 19 What is certain is that in the first months of the war several newsreels were shown
in German cinemas. Most of them offered regular footage from the front, but the GrUnspan
newsreels specialised in films of the Reich. 20 During the entire war period, however, only
Eiko and Messter-Film produced newsreels with any regularity. When war broke out, the
deputy high command banned a large number of feature films on account of the state of
emergency, with the result that cinema suffered from a shortage of feature films. This was
accompanied by a decline in cinema audiences. The public that did remain demanded above
all images fitting the gravity of the moment. In order to meet this demand, many cinemas
supplied films of troop mobilisation which the public responded to with lively interest.
These films included shots of great commanders, propaganda cartoons, picture puzzles,
portraits of battles, and old, partially re-cut films of military exploits on land and sea, as well
as historical footage from conquered overseas territories and patriotic feature films.

The representation of the war in the cinemas was very much in line with general
reporting. It was from the newly established war magazines that films took over the depic-
tion of scenes from frontier areas located well away from enemy lines, cities, street signs,
mass marches, individual soldiers, and military transport. 21 The first war edition of eiko-
woche, which came out on 1 1 September 1914, followed the style of general photographic
or cinematographic reporting. 22 The advertising for it in the trade press contained promises
of exclusive footage from the theatre of war. Unfortunately, this footage has been lost, and
we can only speculate whether the promised sequences were postponed (since at this point
there were still no camera operators at the front) or never shot.

Under pressure from intensified film censorship, the standards set by news re-
porting before the war had to be relinquished. 23 In the first weeks of the war, the lack of war
films made it impossible to supply the press and the cinema with reporting based on actual
events. The reaction of producers and theatre-owners to the ban on filming at the front was
one of patriotic compliance, mixed with demands to allow the public to participate in the
historical course of events in the cinemas. 34 In an attempt to cash in on the lack of genuinely

177 Newsreel Images of the Military and War

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Advertisement for MESS I ER- WOCHE, no, 2, 16 October 1914

178

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new footage, they passed off historic recordings as new ones, scenes of manoeuvres as war
scenes, and footage shot well behind the theatre of war as shots from the front. 25 This ten-
dency to create or re-create war films characterised the first weeks of the war and became
part of a widespread practice which continued throughout the war.

Fears about espionage led to banning in parts of the country of the first war
newsreels, which were censored by the General Staff. In all the cities in which they were
shown, the public proved enthusiastic. Against this background, advertising and trailers
for the weekly newsreels filled much of the space in the press that had previously been
reserved exclusively for feature films. Other advertising techniques, initiated particularly
by Messter Film, presented the imprint of bogus telegrams 26 or trailers, 27 stressing the par-
ticular proximity to the front of the recordings and mentioning the dangers this involved for
the cameraman.

The high command's granting of permission for the production of newsreels
aroused both economic and other expectations. Newsreels were seen as a link between the
real front and the home front that could help those at home to ‘create a consoling picture of
the courage, joy in victory and the good humour among those who had left for war.’ 28 The
films were also celebrated as a ‘great cultural factor,’ which could ‘act as an absolutely
authentic record of inestimable value.’ 29 On the grounds of this authenticity, the newsreels
were seen as ‘highly valuable contemporary documents (...) which will retain a sense of the
new for many decades to come,’ and for this reason there were calls for the creation of an
archive to house the material. 10 There is little doubt that such statements also helped en-
hance the social status of the cinema in general. At the same time, these expectations sprang
from a basic consensus of opinion among the population that they were being shown au-
thentic documentary material which depicted the war in its entirety until the end of 1914.

Newsreels 1915-1916

Around Christmas 1 9 14 it became clear that the war would not be won quickly. As a result
of the blockade and the restrictions it entailed, the mood of the German population under-
went a transformation from the enthusiasm of the first months of the war to a more sullen
mood of survival. In this new environment the newsreels met their first criticism, directed
on the one hand at the censor, who was blamed for the fact that films were ‘increasingly
losing their appeal.’ 31 Doubts also began to be voiced concerning the worth of the films.
Shortly afterwards, the criticism became even more explicit:

None of the current reporting really follows events on the ground. The war news-
reels are an indiscriminate hotchpotch of genre shots and episodes which could
be shown today just as well as next week, considering how little actual news they
contain (...). The public has long since lost interest in this kind of genre film. 32

The trade press, keen to give cinema audiences the most accurate picture possible of events
at the front, called for more camera operators to be sent there, supporting their demand with

179 Newsreel Images of the Military and War

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the argument that propaganda was better in other countries.” The German footage from the
front was deemed inadequate: ‘what have been offered to the public as war films are in fact
not war films at all but only genre shots which could easily have been filmed in Grune-
wald.’ 14 Many shots from the front looked pieced-together, haphazard and unconvincing,
with little evidence of destroyed buildings or people moving about naturally. 15 Other typical
scenes featured soldiers clearing up and repairing buildings attacked by the enemy, or the
sports and leisure pursuits of the soldier in battle dress. They depicted the war as ‘a beautiful
nature film featuring military exercises, and devoid of any unpleasantness.’ 16 The limited
freedom of movement enjoyed by the camera operators at the front meant that they were
usually unable to come up with more than such ‘harmless images.’ By March 1915 cinema
audiences were beginning to regard the war newsreel as something of an annoying interrup-
tion in the evening’s programme which had in the meantime returned to entertainment
fare. 17

While the newspapers were able to report past events as time went on, war foot-
age once banned was not allowed to be shown even at a later date. The vast majority of this
footage was in fact destroyed by the censor.® The rest was put in one of the film archives set
up during the war by the General Staff. 19 As a result of the censor’s decisions, up-to-the-
minute material was scattered far and wide, leaving ‘not. a single hint for the enemy.’ Death
could only be presented in the form of war graves, and the wounded were shown only with
bandages and on the road to recovery. Furthermore, it was forbidden to focus on modem
weaponry, such as certain types of ship, heavier artillery, aeroplanes and logistical equip-
ment. 40 These restrictions combined to prevent the filming and exhibition of genuine battle
scenes or other scenes of war that would have been of interest to the public at home.

Under these conditions the authorities claimed, rather disingenously: ‘We do not
actually own any war reportage on film.’ 41 In many newsreels the deficit had to be compen-
sated for with intertitles. As a result, the war was experienced in the cinema more in the
form of a kind of ‘film writing’ than of ‘film showing.’ The following example comes from
a Messter newsreel:

The title reads: ‘A modem battlefield’ but all you see is an empty field. The title
reads: ‘A French pilot tries to destroy German positions with his bombs, etc.’ and
what you see is a shot of clouds in which, if you squint your eyes, you can just
about make out a tiny, moving point in the distance! The title reads: ‘A telescope
on the dunes' and all you see is a group of officers looking through a pair of
binoculars into the distance, (...) l A soldiers’ swimming pool behind the front.’
That’s what war is. 42

By the summer of 1915 small, handy tripods and a range of other equipment had been
developed to enable the camera operators to work even when under enemy fire. 41 Yet the
content of their films did not change. This is indicated in an account from the summer of
1916 of the ironically bemused reactions of soldiers at the front to the war footage: ‘The

180 Wolfgang Miihl-Benninghaus

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insincerity of these patchwork war films provokes universal hilarity. The whole place fairly
shakes with laughter. What those at home gaze at in wonder is derided mercilessly here.’ 44
In the summer of 1916, the only two companies still making newsreels were
Eiko and Messier. This development can only partly be explained by the content of the
Films. We should also take into account the high cost and the enormous effort involved in
producing a newsreel. Such efforts were only profitable as long as broad sections of the
population went to the cinema chiefly to watch ‘the news.’ The public’s rush to see footage
of the war was limited, however, to the first months of the war when everyone was volun-
teering for service and expectations of a swift end to the war were high. As the euphoria
abated, under conditions of entrenched warfare and the blockade, and as the war became
less and less a heroic carnival and more part of everyday life, the public’s interest in the war
newsreel faded- The images they contained no longer corresponded to the public’s idea of
war formed by the various representations of the Franco-Prussian war of 1870-71: troops
advancing, cavalry attacks, man-to-man combat, colourful uniforms, etc. As early as 1909,
General Schlieffen, pointing to the new technology of war, had drawn attention to the fact
that in the future wars would be fought on seemingly empty battlefields, 45 This view was
borne out in the pictures of the war in the Balkans, which were shown with little success in
German cinemas at the end of 1913 and early 1914. They could offer the audience ‘little of
interest.’ 46 This development continued in World War I. It offered next to no opportunities
for traditional adventure, the soldier’s role being largely defined by technology. Trench
warfare was unsuitable for filming, and the recordings made by the few camera operators
allowed to film on the front line often showed immobile soldiers, shot under poor lighting
conditions.

Representations of the Military in the Second Half of the War

With the exception of the then very popular war dramas, during the first half of the war the
presence of war in the cinemas was limited almost exclusively to the war newsreel. In addi-
tion, only a few films were shown, dealing for example with the rehabilitation of war inva-
lids 47 or techniques for training war dogs. 4 *

After the nomination of Hindenburg as Head of the Supreme Military Command
in the summer of 1916, this situation underwent certain profound changes. Many leading
personalities of the Reich, including a large number of military men, had by then become
convinced that ‘film was the best form of propaganda in war time.’ It was thought that ‘the
viewer sees not only with his heart but with his soul and his feelings.’ 49 As a result of this
conviction, from the fifth war loan of the summer of 1916 onwards, regular and lavishly
produced promotional films were shown alongside the newsreels 50 to encourage the Ger-
man people to sign up for the war bonds. That same year the German Naval League began
producing films again. It promoted its goals in the cinemas in the second half of the war 51
with the film stolz weht die flagge schwarz-weiss-rot (‘The black-white-and-red
Flag flutters with Pride’), and it promoted its social institutions with ‘an old people’s and

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invalids’ home.’ 52 Deutsche Bioscop showed anti-French and anti-Russian films such as die
MAROKKODEUTSCHEN IN DER GEWALT DER FRANZOSEN and DER KNUTE KNTFLOHEN. In
Berlin, film producers, with state support, founded the ‘Freie Vereinigung zur Fordcrung
des Lichtspielwesens in gemeinniitzigem, vaterlandischen Sinne’ (‘The Association for the
Promotion of Cinema for the Benefit of the Public and the Fatherland’), which had as its
goal improving the procurement of propaganda material for films. 53 The Royal Saxony War
Ministry, for instance, commissioned Messter to produce footage of troops from Saxony at
the front, in order to ‘provide those at home with a faithful picture of the life of their loyal
sons out there, far away on the scene of bloody conflict.’ 54 In addition, Deulig, founded in
1917, produced a series of partly staged industrial films 55 such as aus des deutschen

REICHES WAFFENSCHMIEDE Or DEUTSCHE SCHUHFABRIKATION IM KRIEGE, which Were in-
tended to demonstrate the productivity of the German war economy. Various films of Ger-
man cities and countryside by the same firm were also intended to strengthen the spectator’s
love for his or her homeland.

A key change came following a request from Austria that the Reich provide
support for the production of promotional films to be shown primarily in the Balkans. On 8
August 1916, the Military Film and Photography Unit was set up in section IIIB of the
General Staff. 56 A circular issued by the war ministry in August 1916 emphasised that the
goal of the new unit was to ‘bring to other neutral countries films of much greater potency
than those previously made, which would represent the mass effect of our military, econom-
ic and industrial achievements.’ 57 A few days later the war ministry wrote to the Imperial
Chancellor and the Imperial Ministry of the Interior calling for the production of propagan-
da films which would bring about ‘a boost to the civilians’ morale’ on a mass scale. During
the interval dramatic or comic presentations were to be shown, since the cinema audience
could ‘not be fed with war footage and industrial films alone.’ 58 Both of these documents
indicate a transformation in the perceived value of film among those at top levels of the
military command. In connection with the total mobilisation of all forces for the war, film
was increasingly regarded as a form of propaganda from a military viewpoint. This was
particularly true of non-fiction films about war, industrial plants, banking, the economy and
shots of the countryside, which were increasingly produced in the period that followed. But
the visible success of this new strategy came up against three main obstacles. The first was
connected with the organisational structure of film production and exhibition. Complete
responsibility for all issues relating to cinema fell to the deputy military commanders of the
army and fortifications. 59 The lack of a clear command structure and of clearly defined roles
within the 24 different army corps as far as cinematic matters were concerned made a na-
tionwide communications policy virtually impossible in the subsequent period. Secondly,
all the power of decision making on essential matters concerning propaganda lay in the
hands of the military command - men who bad been raised to put the nation and their
loyalty to the Kaiser before everything else. As a result their value judgements were orient-
ed more towards the nation state (a state built on power) than towards a nation of the people .

182 Wolfgang Miihl-Benrtingfuius

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Both the nation-state and the ‘power state’ demanded society’s deference to ail things mili-
tary. The assertion of power and of power politics was assumed unquestioningly, leaving
little room for thinking in terms of the manipulation of melodrama and sentiment. 60 Thirdly,
the cinema, particularly in the provinces, w'as one of the few forms of public entertainment
available during the war. Due largely to the strictly limited range of entertainment on offer,
audiences were generally ‘more repelled than attracted’ 61 by programmes designed as edu-
cational propaganda. Under these conditions cinema owners had to reconcile two partly
contradictory positions: They had to attract a public seeking diversion and entertainment,
while also needing to defer to the cinema reformers - still active in the second half of the
war - by demonstrating the indispensability of the cinemas as a place of patriotism and
‘attitudes loyal to the fatherland.’ 62

As a result of the establishment of the Military Photographic and Film Depart-
ment, members of the imperial army took over the production of special films of the front, a
task considered by the supreme command too important to be left to civilians. 63 While the
newsreels were generally ‘recorded a safe distance away from the real war’, the official war
films produced by the new film department would show real pictures from the front. The
first film of this kind was mackensens siegeszug durch die dobrudscha (19 16), 64 fea-
turing the capture of Romania. It was followed in January 1917 by bei unseren helden an
der somme, which was greatly feted in the German press, but met with little success in
neutral or friendly foreign countries, not least because it was compared unfavourably with
the British Somme films. 65 As part of an intensification of propagandistic activities, 30 Jan-
uary 1917 saw the inauguration of the BuFA (Bild- und Filmamt), 66 the brainchild of the
film section of the foreign office, which produced several official films. Many of the images
shown in these official propaganda films were also incorporated into the newsreels. Partic-
ularly since towards the end of the war the mood in Germany increasingly degenerated from
one of endurance to one of fatalism, the newsreels’ lack of footage that could grip the public
became a major concern. 67 The distributors of German newsreels in neutral foreign coun-
tries were forever communicating to Germany that the content of the propaganda films was
identical to that of the newsreels, with the result that the film theatres in question were
‘often empty or could only muster a bored public in their place.’ 68

Besides, all the restrictions placed on the newsreels were also placed on the
official films. Despite the change in attitude towards film as a medium compared with that
of the pre war period and the first half of the war, the restrictions on content remained. 60 As
a result of these restrictions on content, the overwhelming majority of the preserved footage
gives the impression of a war that had been traditional in nature and which had simply been
given an added dimension in the form of new weaponry. None of the suffering, death, dehu-
manisation, nor the destruction of the countryside, of cities or of industry itself, all of which
were part of this war, are to be found in the images of war from 1914-1918 — images which
continue to shape our visual memory even today. 70

There is little evidence in most of the feature films of the period of the kind of

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footage seen in the battle of isonzo. It came to German cinemas within a week. 71 In
terms of actuality, the newsreel of the landing on the island of oesel was also an excep-
tion, since this too was shown a mere matter of days after the event. The film, premiered at
the end of October 1917, can also be regarded as remarkable by virtue of its content. Where-
as war films tended to show only armed forces, this one focused on the interaction between
land, air and sea forces in the taking of the island and in doing so highlighted the horrifying
dimension of the war. Genuine battle scenes, however, are also missing. The film shows
material, heavy guns, horses and soldiers being loaded into huge ships on the quayside at
Riga. After shots of the crossing, there follow scenes of the unloading of the motorcycle
divisions, the infantry and the horses, at the end of which we are shown Russian prisoners
and a captured radio station.

Many of the problems could be traced to the austerity brought on by war, which
in any case considerably thwarted the making of films. 72 But the German film propaganda
also faced the problem of the length of newsreels and BuFA productions. Generally, the
films were relatively short and could therefore only be used as a filler, the usual practice in
Germany’s large theatres being to show only two long films. The Austro-Hungarian film
market would refuse short films altogether. In Scandinavia only a small number of first-
class short films were taken up. 7J In Germany official films and newsreels could usually
only be shown in small or medium-sized theatres and in cinemas on the front, run by the
BuFA. A prerequisite for the marketability of propaganda films was that they formed part of
a package which included entertainment films. 74

In August 1918 there was general agreement among the participants at a confer-
ence in the headquarters of the Foreign Office that fundamental changes were required in
newsreels. 75 As in previous years, a few cosmetic alterations were suggested, but the confer-
ence failed to agree on fundamental changes to production. The Foreign Office gave its
support to a plan that would enable Messter-Film to film also in friendly foreign countries,
making newsreels more attractive to foreign audiences. Despite all the shortcomings of
Messter newsreels, from this point on, Messter was assured that couriers from the ministry
would, if need be, transport his newsreels to these countries.™

Immediately after the war, the Kinematograph published the following retro-
spect which might stand as something like an epitaph:

The last year of the war also brought the last war newsreels. Far be it from us to
speak ill of the dead, but these war newsreels, which were gradually dying off of
their own accord anyway, were not only a burden on the film programme, they
were also an annoyance. They were boring and largely undeserving of their title,
often being pieced together from old material rather than portraying the war.
And what is more, the public was only too aware of it. 77

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Learning from the Enemy:

German Film Propaganda in World War I

Rainer Rather

When Goebbels in his speeches about film and propaganda tried to emphasize the specifics
of Nazi propaganda, he inevitably mentioned the attempts Germany had made in this area
during World War I. Needless to say, in retrospect these former efforts looked quite poor.
For instance, speaking on 15 February 1 941 , on the occasion of the Reichsfilmkammer war
meeting, Goebbels argued that propaganda gained a new role because of the war:

This was so in the World War, too, only then we Germans had not understood it
yet. In the World War the English chances for victory were based essentially on
the attrition of the German people on the home front, so that even if Germany
could put one victory after the other on its flag it was defeated morally. The
result of this moral catastrophe was total military breakdown. And the English
are still attempting to repeat the November 1918 experience today.'

Of course, Goebbels told his audience that this time the English would not be given another
chance, and his view is in fact merely a version of the ‘DolchstoB-Legende’ (the ‘stab-in-
thc-back legend’) already used by one of propaganda’s inventors. General Ludendorff,
years before. That Goebbels should allude to Germany’s World War I Film propaganda as a
background to the propaganda war for which he was preparing is hardly surprising. Yet
neither is his negative attitude towards his predecessors unusual. In fact, comparable state-
ments, critical of the German propaganda efforts, appeared in print shortly after the war.
The disparaging evaluation of the mass medium film was not isolated; judgement passed on
other visual media, whose propaganda value was considered equally great, was not much
better: In 1919 the journal Das Plakat published the following:

We no longer need to have any hesitation in asserting that it was not only the
superior military might that brought the German army to its knees, the enemy’s
war propaganda also had a significant influence on undermining the morale of
our troops with its methodical deployment and psychological acuteness. If vic-
tory was denied to us, it was only because we could not produce equally good
propaganda. 2

This confirms that retrospective assessments immediately after the war criticised both the
aesthetic defects of German propaganda and the lack of purpose and aggressiveness in the
message. Ironically, the view of entente propaganda as excessively aggressive was one of
the stereotypical verdicts used during the war by the military authorities of the Central

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Powers in order to qualify their own propaganda as ‘information,* Already then, an admis-
sion was hidden in this assessment applicable to the various types of visual propaganda:
even in the war years, the German propaganda effort was inadequate and largely clueless
(which, especially as far as lack of aggressiveness is concerned, cannot be levelled against
written and printed propaganda material). Such ‘self-criticism* was voiced more publicly
after the armistice, but the shortcomings concentrated on were largely the ones already
noted by the respective propaganda ‘specialists’ during the war, who, after all, were not
blind to the generally unconvincing nature of their own product. On the contrary, practically
throughout the war, they monitored the effectiveness of posters, photographs and films put
out by officials to propagate the ‘German cause,’ openly referring to the entente’s efforts as
their yardstick. In particular, embassy officials serving in neutral countries supplied the
‘Central Service of the Foreign Office’ regularly with appropriate reports. These consisted
frequently of complaints: unwilling to exonerate the failure of German forms of information
management, by praising its propaganda for not denigrating the enemy or spreading a dis-
torted picture, they openly compared the effects of the opponents’ efforts and concluded that
there was a lot to be learnt from them of what good propaganda should look like. This was
the situation that led first to the founding of the ‘Photo and Film Office’ (BuFA) and then to
the establishment of the Ufa, the latter not quite so obviously linked to officialdom/ Never-
theless, both institutions can be seen as attempts to produce a change in the means of prop-
aganda by an organisational reform. Already with the establishment of BuFA this involved
not just a rationalisation and centralisation of efforts, but more importantly a new, 'modem’
pictorial language.

The goal of such endeavours can be reconstructed in the first place from the lists
of defects noted. The following passage from Harry Graf Kessler is typical for the embassy
reports, in this case from the German Embassy in Switzerland where he worked:

Concerning the propaganda films, we would particularly like to see the German
film industry decide to make works written by first-rate authors starring well-
loved actors and actresses, that would arouse attention and sympathy for our
cause in an entertaining way. An exemplary work of this type was (...) mutter-
HERZ fi.e, meres FRANCISES] with Sarah Bernhardt, a description of which was
sent to Berlin some time ago. 4

This aim of promoting one’s own side in an entertaining manner with investment in stars
and first-rate authors separated propaganda in the first place from didactics and rhetoric: it
should not only ‘inform,’ it should seduce you into agreement.

Whatever the BuFA first thought about these suggestions, the resources and
chances of a film being made to compete with Sarah Bernhardt were seriously calculated:
less than a year after its official founding, the Office had produced a confidential discussion
document, dated 14 November 1917 and stamped ‘For official use only.’ Taking stock of the
dismal failure of previous activities, it was a reactive document in two senses: an act of self-

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criticism and a reaction to the other side's success, both of which influenced the way the
BuFA came to regard itself. The report, however, went further and summarized official
attitudes to propaganda and information . 5

Since the BuFA broadly shared this perspective, the memorandum did not limit
itself to the official justification, by pleading self-defence in view of the enemy’s machina-
tions, but proceeded to list what it considered the essential ingredients for a successful Ger-
man propaganda film:

The propaganda film must be formed in a way so that it can compete with and
even outdo the purely entertaining film. It must not only hit the instincts every
propaganda wants to hit, but also has to take into account the justified desire for
entertainment on the part of the masses as well as their curiosity.

The memorandum criticizes the press which in general does not support domestic films
sufficiently. It regrets that only a few foreign propaganda films could be studied properly in
Berlin, with the effect that the counter-propaganda does not clearly know what they are up
against. And it suggests using famous and popular domestic stars in feature films with prop-
agandistic messages. On the other hand - and following the lines of Graf Kessler’s argu-
ment - the comparison serves as background for recommending the creation of rivals to the
entente feature films

which would hit the weaknesses of the entente propaganda. So far, it has not
been possible to match the means and ideas and new effects of the entente prop-

DAS TAGEBUCH DES DR. HART (1917)

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aganda. The film UNSUHNBAR [featuring Adele Sandrock] is the only one that
can compete with the film starring Sarah Bernhardt, MERES FRANC A1SES. For the
first time an attempt was made to place a great German tragic actress in the
centre of attention. In addition, the war bond film HAN, HEIN UND HENNY which
managed to star the most famous German actress, Henny Porten, represented
one of the successes of this type, and it was the first German propaganda feature
film that was wildly and ostentatiously applauded in the theatres. This shows
how extraordinarily rewarding it is to utilise great acting extravagance in propa-
ganda films. To employ the power of a popular or celebrated personality in the
service of propaganda is itself a means of propaganda that has been borrowed
successfully from the French and will be utilised more extensively in the future. 6

Such films with major stars, however, remained rare; Henny Porten, for example, does not
seem to have been available again. 7 Of the films that were produced in Germany, only a few
met the required standards - first-rate authors, famous stars, etc. Nevertheless, two films
aimed at particular "weaknesses' of the entente are considered noteworthy, consistent exam-
ples of German film propaganda. Both concentrated their story on the Polish population,
displaying the advantages of Germany just as impressively as they dramatized the disadvan-
tages of (tsarist) Russia. These were das tagebuch des dr. hart 8 and der gelbe schein.
They both formed part of the attempt to persuade the Polish people to support the German
side, which began after the proclamation of an independent Polish state by the middle-
ranking powers on 5 November 1916 (but actually planned for the victorious end of the
war), das tagebuch des dr. hart, whose original title der feldarzt did not receive the
authorities' approval, struck contemporary critics as a particularly successful example of
film propaganda, especially because its purpose was part of the plot: the film, according to
one critic,

should above all be a propaganda film. It should show us the blessing of medical
help and activities in the field, and on the other hand the self-sacrifice, the cheer-
ful devotion to duty and the strains of a field doctor. This is not meant to be a
moment of feeling but to be propaganda for a purpose. By the lively treatment,
which does not avoid tension, by neatly incorporating the message, which we
cannot absorb otherwise to such an extent, the viewer is kept on tenterhooks
until the very end.’ 7

der gelbe schein also received praise for similarly making the message unobtrusive. It is
one of the earliest German productions with Pola Negri undertaken by PAGU, which had
meanwhile become part of the Ufa. With der gelbe schein Ufa had thus at least in one
instance successfully fulfilled its propaganda mission as expected by the High Command.
The film was passed by the censor in September 1918 (length 1624 m) but was only shown
after the war: the premiere took place in Berlin on 22 November 19 18. 10

188 German Film Propaganda in World War /

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Directed by Victor Janson and Eugen Hies and written by Hans Brennert and
Hanns Kraly, 1 ‘ the film tells the story of a young woman taken in by a Jewish family after
her despairing mother had committed suicide. Pola Negri played the young woman fasci-
nated by science whose deepest wish was to study medicine in St. Petersburg. However, this
wish collided with the tsarist regulation that Jewish women could only reside in the city if
they had a ‘yellow' ticket’ - which was tantamount to being a prostitute. Lea could not find
any accommodation because of her passport which proclaimed her Jewish background and
finally applies for the stigmatising certificate. By chance, however, she finds in a book the
identification papers of her professor’s dead sister and takes on her identity. Her studies
proceed well, but her landlady repeatedly demands the outstanding rent, and threatens to
force her into prostitution. The drama contains several reversals, and although there is final-
ly a happy ending, the heroine’s fate up to that point is harsh enough, even including an
unsuccessful suicide attempt, to make quite clear to the public the harsh and unjust condi-
tions in Russia. The ending of the story is also not unambiguous, since Lea is revealed to be
an abandoned orphan of Russian blood and the daughter of her professor Typically, al-
though one would have thought anti-semitism was the obvious starting-point for criticising
the despotic regime in Russia, the film engineers the improbable turn of events presumably
because it did not trust its public to accept a Jewess as the heroine.

Janson ’s film contains many moments of theatricality, with scenes that look as if
they are played on stage, but also amazes because of Negri’s acting and the close-ups of her
face. What makes it a technically impressive production is w'hat makes it even better as a
propaganda vehicle. Thus, it exemplifies the concept of good propaganda that the message
must not be obvious with its entertaining treatment rather than explicit speeches. In this
respect, der gelbe schein accords with the goals the BuFA had set for itself, coming up to
the (aesthetic) standards of not only the frequently mentioned meres fran^aises, but also
such American films as those of Thomas Ince, which were considered a most potent threat. 12
In the area of documentary films, it was, of course, the battle of the somme (1916),
which pushed the German side to similar efforts. 13 As a matter of fact, the first film made
under the BuFA regime was a direct response to the British model. It was called bei unser-
en helden an der somme and was first shown publicly in Berlin on 19 January 1917. For
the first time a film was released bearing the explicit characterisation ‘amtlich-militarisch’ -
or ‘official military business.’ Never before had a film presenting pictures of actual battle
been shown in Germany - this film was advertised as doing so. And never before had a
propaganda film been given a festival premiere. A journalist reported:

One was invited to the first private performance preceding the public perform-
ances in one of the modern Berlin movie palaces. Mostly gentlemen in black,
only occasional ladies, numerous officers - a solemn, seriously expectant audi-
ence as had scarcely been assembled so densely at any other time in a film theat-
er, Subdued conversations here and there, otherwise silence. Darkness drifts

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through the hall, music begins, the velvet curtain is parted and on the white
shimmering screen letters engrave themselves, like words from a sacred text:
‘Bei unsem Helden an der Somme.” 14

One may doubt if the atmosphere in the then brand-new ‘Tauentzien-Palast’ was quite that
ceremonious, but the performance was without a doubt an event. It was well prepared (two
days earlier a newspaper published a preliminary report 1 '), well attended and appreciated, at
least as far as the press reaction was concerned.

The film consists of three clearly distinct parts. The first shows the daily life
behind the western front. Reinforcements and supplies are brought to the lines, the inhabit-
ants are evacuated because of the bombardment, etc. And, the main point: views of villages
and towns destroyed by English, and sometimes French, artillery. These efforts represented
so to speak the German answer to films such as les monuments historiques d” arras,
VICTIMES DE LA BARBAR1E ALLEMANDE Or L’OEUVRE DE LA ‘KULTUR’ - DEUX VILLES
ouvertes e i sans deeense. 16 As in the French films, extensive panning shots were used in
bei unseren helden an der somme to show the destruction. This is not surprising when
one looks at other, earlier, non-fiction films since camera mobility had been utilized consid-
erably earlier in actualities than in fiction films. Camera movement can be found not only in
the countless and extremely popular 'phantom rides,’ in which the camera’s view was fixed
in the direction of movement, usually along railway lines through (as exotic as possible)
landscapes, or a journey over the Brooklyn Bridge, or a ride on the Wuppertal suspension
railway. Pan shots were needed early on to capture particular happenings or places. For
example, in 1900 Guido Seeber in the ausfahrt der sachsischen chinakrieger fol-
lowed the character at the end with a short and still clumsy pan. However, an event such as
the great fire at the World Fair was portrayed under rather poor direction in incendie de
l’exposition de bruxelles (1910) with the climax at the end consisting of numerous pans
that circled 360° around the bumed-out English pavilion.

In this respect, then, the use of pans, preferably extended, to portray the destruc-
tion is nothing new in world cinema, even though one finds them only incidentally in Ger-
man films. In the French films mentioned above, the movements of the characters are incor-
porated, and the pan begins with them, while a similar motivation is lacking in German
films. However, I think it would be wrong to regard this as aesthetic backwardness. After all,
in unsere stadte als opfer der franzosischen artillerie (1917), a remarkable hori-
zontal pan in a ruined church ends on the statue of the Madonna, and a vertical pan stops just
as it views the sky through the damaged roof. This closing movement leaves a strong im-
pression and stresses the outrage over the damage visited upon ‘defenceless’ cities (which in
this version are coincidentally situated outside Germany, though theoretically defended by
German soldiers!).

The Embassy complaints mentioned earlier in fact do not touch on the technical
quality of these ‘war films’ - always strictly distinguished from propaganda feature films -

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but stress other disadvantages, notably that compared with the English product, convincing
battle scenes are missing and the films are too short to offer spectators an evening-long
programme. Battle scenes similar to the English films are indeed not found in German films
- even when they resort to stock shots of troop manoeuvres claiming to be authentic images
from the frontlines. The attempt was therefore made with bei unseren helden an der
somme, but only staged scenes appear, notably in the second and third parts, which may have
detracted from its effect. For although the press were willing (against their better judgement?)
to consider the film accomplished, revealingly treating it as actuality, it was not a success. But
only in the light of their willingness to recognize the (propagandist) intention is it possible to
understand the comment that these were ‘historical document(s) of inestimable worth.” 17

Even the declining attraction of the entente’s full-length ‘war films’ by the end of
1917 provided BuFA with little consolation, considering the continuing ineffectiveness of
German films. The news that the battle of the ancre was not as well received as its
predecessor 18 said more about the public’s weariness with images from the war in general 19
than about any successes on the part of Gentian propaganda, which appeared to have no
strategy for using ‘documentary images’ to counteract the public’s aversion to seeing the
same pictures of destruction over and over again.

The amazing element of the BuFA’s work is the discrepancy between the quasi-
theoretically formulated goals and the filmic results. The films were not innovative, although
there is a distinct improvement in the filmic articulation over the war period. The Gennan
film industry had rather limited resources at its disposal, and its staff may have been relative-
ly inexperienced. In those terms the propaganda films, which were only a small part of the
total film production, slowly ‘improved,’ but they never matched the level of theoretical
reflection on the nature and uses of film propaganda.

The men in charge at BuFA, then, were obviously not as obtuse as Goebbels
made them out to be: they had the right ideas and had no hesitations about passing off faked
or staged scenes as authentic. But above all, they recognized the core of effective media
manipulation:

The psychological momentum is the ruling one (...). The propaganda film will
only be successful if it is aimed towards the latent instincts. They should be
awakened, strengthened, kindled and stirred up in the desired way in order to
attain the chosen end. The propaganda film can only be a success if it not only
persuades and takes by surprise, but also convinces. (...) Domestic propaganda,
too, has to take care to support or awaken only such favourable elements, which
are still slumbering in the spectators’ unconciousness. 20

Instead of haranging them, Goebbels might just as well have taken his hat off to the men
from the BuFA memorandum: they were his predecessors, pointing the way to his own
propaganda policy. Whether this made his own efforts ‘superior’ as film propaganda or
more successful as an antidote to ‘total military breakdown’ is, of course, another matter.

191 Rainer Rather

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The Reason and Magic of Steel: Industrial and
Urban Discourses in die poldihutte

Kimberly O' Quinn

The factory became one of the initial cinematic landscapes when the Lumiere Brothers
opened the gates and filmed la sortie des usines lumiere in 1895. In 1916, a German
documentary toured a steel factory in another innovative exploration of this working class
locale. In the twenty-one years from la sortie des usines lumiere to das stahlwerk der
poldihutte wahrend des weltkrieges (‘The Poldihtitte Steelworks During the World
War’), the cinema, technology and city life continued to mesh and transform as well depict
the changing visual perception of time and space. With these transformations in mind, this
essay will try to unfold around the poldihutte steelworks three interweaving discours-
es: the immediate story of steel production during war-time, the representation of the steel-
works as a technological spectacle and the deeper, underlying narrative of urbanism and the
enigma of the city. An analysis of this almost unknown film may help identify some of the
multiple histories that intersected with film form in 1916, not only in Wilhelmine Germany,
but internationally.

Industrial Publicity Cinema

poldihutte is divided into three parts, each introduced by the inter-title ‘The Poldihutte
Steelworks, during the World War - Important Scientific Record.’ 1 This division by inter-
title is the starting point for unravelling the surface narrative of the progress from coal to
iron to steel products. The ‘First Series’ covers the preparatory stages, beginning with a
panoramic shot of the factory yard, introducing the overall setting and triggering the sym-
bolic awakening of factory life and thus of the film. The argumentative progression is sig-
nalled by a movement from outside to inside the factory walls where the initial sequence
shows how fire softens and transforms the raw material. Crude iron casings take on shape by
the intensity of the ovens’ molten heat. In these images, the large iron chunks and the raw
coal are manoeuvered by mechanical devices, such as cranes and conveyor belts. Workers,
at this point, act as monitors by taking specimens of the fluid steel and operating the ma-
chinery.

The ‘vSecond Series,’ although still concerned with the ‘growth’ of steel into
tubes, marks a narrative break. The pieces of steel become smaller and are shaved down into
their final form, grenades. Instead of heat, tools like drills and hammers are now applied,
sculpting the steel towards its final form, while workers have a more hands-on role in cut-
ting and testing individual grenade bodies. The next to the last shot of this series is the
loading of weapons onto a train car, and this production phase then executes a structural
closure by returning to the panoramas of the poldihutte ‘factory scape.’

192 The Reason and Magic of Steel

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The ‘Third Series’ introduces the production of crankshafts for airplanes and
automobiles, In its preparation phase, the crude steel blocks are even larger and must be
manoeuvered by both man and machine in their softening and shaping procedures. Similar
to the grenades, they, too, are run through rotation tests on lathes. Both crankshafts and
grenades are finally depicted piled in neat rows, the result of a completion process in mass
production as well as a visual device of closure: from the mounds of raw material in the
factory yards to the shining stacks of a refined, man-made product. The Series continues
with what is actually a distinct fourth or final part, outlining the infrastructure of the steel
factory: the transportation network, electrical system, laboratories and engineering division.

The film closes as the day shift leaves the factory, echoing the Lumiere workers
who also departed from the front gates towards the camera and exited diagonally off-frame.
For factory gates are an entrance and an exit, a place which marks the beginning of work and
the end of work. The film adapts this visual signifier in order to frame its own beginning and
ending and to suggest the temporal structure of a day’s labor. Regarding poldihutte’s
overall shape, it would be appropriate to recall Marshall Deutelbaum’s remark about the
Lumiere films: ‘The event depicted is not discovered but created, not recorded but acted, the
whole a unified design.’ 2

As has often been pointed out, this ‘design’ of la sortie des usines lumiere is
part of its larger purpose as ‘the first example of a notable non-fiction sub-genre, the indus-
trial publicity film.’ 3 The Lumieres were entrepreneur filmmakers, able to market their fac-
tory name through an entertaining innovation, poldihutte continues the tradition of this
early sub-genre, not only in its factory setting, but by returning to the ‘selling’ of science
and industry through the cinematic machine. In Germany, however, it was the institutional
context surrounding non-fiction filmmaking, particularly that of the Kulturfilm in war-time,
which furthered such a strategy.

From 1907 onwards, Kinoreformers had advocated the creation of an alternative
cinematic discourse. The core of their argument was that the German public, especially the
young, were being overexposed to the corrupting environment of the cinema theaters pre-
dominantly melodramatic narratives, also known as Schundfdme or ‘trash’ films. Educators,
in their position as a cultural elite, pressured producers and the developing German film
industry to consider film for the classroom, or more specifically to return to the example of
the early actualities, which Kulturfilm - advocates felt reflected the cinema’s potential for
instruction rather than fantasy. 4

The movement realized that in order to be a viable alternative, the Kulturfilm
needed to compete with the commercial industry, and therefore to expand its distribution
and exhibition network. Schools, the few ‘scientific’ cinemas and the ‘Wanderkinos’ were
the most immediate exhibition sites, and new production companies began to organize
based on this potential audience for Kulturfilms. The output, however, remained specialized,
focused mainly in working-class areas, and marginal groups, unrepresentative of the prose-
lytizing discourse that had given rise to it. 5 Although the Kulturfilms could compete with the

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commercial industry in terms of production standards, it was obviously an impossible task
to redirect the contemporary cinema industry towards this genre as the ‘national ideal.’ 6 The
initiative might well have lost steam altogether, had it not been for World War I, when
official bodies mobilized the ideology and practice of the Kulturfilm, except not necessarily
for the classroom: ‘The grassroots endeavors of educational reformers gave way at this
junction to the interests of capitalism and the state.’ 7

The tactic of simultaneously promoting the Gentian state and its international
image via Gentian products instigated a transformation in the Kulturfilm towards a more
overt nationalist and promotional agenda.* Geography and biology as favourite topics of the
educational Kulturfilm practically disappeared, making way for the films of DEULIG
(Deutsche Lichtbild Gesellschaft, formed as a government organization in 1916), an essen-
tially commercial venture that commissioned films endorsing German heavy industry, in-
dustrial plants and cityscapes. 9 This new Kulturfilm strengthened its competitiveness and
profitability through the war-time centralization of DEULIG and also of BuFA (Bild und
Film Amt), both of which were eventually consolidated into UFA (Universum Film AG) and
becoming one of the pillars in the foundation of Germany’s post-war film industry. 10

The prestige of the war-time Kulturfilm also rose with the participation of pro-
fessional filmmakers. The production of ‘commercials’ could already look back on a history
of innovation and experiment, 11 to which must be added the exoticism and subsequent pop-
ularity of newsreels, a rather close relative of the Kulturfilm , especially when one remem-
bers the pioneering role of Oskar Messter in making the newsreels an appealing spectacle,
rather than horrifying. 12 Messter was a commercial producer, but equally an inventor who
used the Kulturfilm as a welcome environment for cinematic experimentation and technical
research, 1 ’ part of his strategy of combining entertainment, warfare and education, and his
belief in the cinema as ‘weapon.’ He spoke out for the power of moving images, criticizing
the government for not developing their full potential in promoting national identity, both at
home and abroad. 19 poi.dihutte, a Messter-Film production, fits neatly into this strategy,
making it singularly appropriate to consider the film as an example of aesthetic innovation
in the service of a creative approach to industrial publicity, German national cinema, and
war propaganda.

If the cinema was a contested territory in Wilhelmine Germany, where control-
ling it meant encountering ‘the internal and external enemy - the rising working class and
other nations, ’ 1S polijihutte’s eclecticism is also strategic, seeing how it advertises the
working-class to itself and to the other, by way of a double containment: representing work
ers within a productive public sphere, it also gives of them an image in contrast to that of the
Reform Movement which implicitly saw them being ‘corrupted’ by the cinema theaters. At
the same time, in its professional and sophisticated visuals, it becomes an elaborate and
ambitious advertisement for the German steel industry, a due to its intention beyond the
audience of the classroom and even beyond Germany’s borders.

William Uricchio, who speaks of the genre’s ‘war-time transformations,’ 16 has

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suggested that the political consequences for the new Kulturfilm limited its potential and
message. It would be my argument, however, that poldihutte exposes the very artificiality
of dividing the Kulturfilm between instruction and narrative, or to uphold a strict separation
of non-fiction and fiction film. Rather than an example of a war-time Kulturfilm that ‘con-
strains the range of effective discourse* 17 poldihutte pioneers an innovative way of recog
nizing cinema’s modernity and potential within a political space. Returning to the example
of the Lumiere films, it should be remembered that their selling of industry was perceived
neither as realistic nor propagandists, but as a kind of magic. |S Similarly, the story of how
steel and its applications are mass produced is merely the facade of poldihutte’s story
construction. The visual symmetry and compositions for effect that structure the segments
both internally and in relation to each other cross the boundary from informing about the
process to a fascination with the process, poldihutte may have been intended as a demon-
stration of German industry and the war effort, but an equally strong undercurrent seems to
reflect an attraction for the machine style as such, or as Tom Gunning has termed it, ‘the
primal power of the attraction run[s] beneath the armature of narrative regulation.’ |v

DAS STAHLWERK DER POLDIHUTTE (1916)

Technology as Spectacle

Halfway through the ‘Third Series’ of poldihutte a sequence demonstrates how springs
are tested for railroad wagons. Two miniature rail carts roll slowly onto the screen, balanc-
ing the frame on either side by transporting and supporting a bowed strip of steel and plac-
ing it under a hydraulic press. The peculiar geometry is an immediate visual curiosity. A

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factory worker adds plates on top of the strip to increase the weight and to achieve a balance.
He then backs out of the frame, cuing the viewer that the machine’s performance will soon
begin. The press gradually bends the strip in the opposite direction and then releases. The
effect of this procedure is not a greater knowledge of the engineering involved, but rather a
sense of wonder as the three players, press, carts and steel achieve a kind of harmonic
intercourse. The demonstration, one of the lengthiest shots in the film, is a presentational
space of magical theater in the overall diegesis.

Central to the visual pleasure of the Poldihutte factory productions are these
seductive transformation processes taking place in the steelworks, watching how machines
and workers together sculpt the raw materials into shapes, resolving the contradiction be-
tween steel as solidly impenetrable and its fluidity and grace. Trying to interpret the unfa-
miliarity and strangeness of the performance encourages various human and animal analo-
gies, with the huge steel blocks in the Third Series reminding one of untamed beasts or
prehistoric creatures. They sway within their chains, positioned by the workers’ prongs,
until they must submit to the mechanical press or the oven fires. In addition, the camera
follows individual pieces, a cast iron shell for example, as it gradually assumes its final form
and is eventually loaded on a train, symbolic of characters maturing and leaving home.

It is my position that poldihuttf.’s excessiveness and its machines of otherness
are part of a history of industrial amusement, part of the technological entertainments which
belong to the convergence of the discourses of education, entertainment and science at the
turn of the century. Reflected in places like Coney Island, where electricity and the X-ray
machine were displayed as new sensations, this exchange between leisure and science
found its ideal expression in World Fairs, universal expositions and large-scale amusement
parks,

Tom Gunning has cited the example of the St. Louis Fair in 1904 to argue that
‘the visual effect of the World Exposition teeters between the rational and classifying
knowledge of the object lesson and an experience of bewilderment before the intensity of
technology and cultural and sensual variety.’ 20 He compares the spectacles as a trip through
an encyclopedia, from restagings of the Galveston Flood, the Boer War and the explosion of
the Battleship Maine to Philippine villages and the streets of Seville. 21 At the World Exposi-
tions, visitors could walk through exhibits displaying the transformation from raw materials
to refined objects. A trip through the fairground was a replacement for travelling the world,
or a tour through a factory. 22 It diminished time by trying to fit years of experience into an
afternoon. As the educational reformers of the Kulturfilm would attempt a few years later,
the Expositions and Fairs were stressing the visual, rather than verbal tools of instruction:
‘scrutinizing the actual objects for the lessons, they contained,’ rather than the texts. 23 As a
consequence, an industrial-educational cinema, although a secondary attraction, was being
incorporated into the Fairs’ entertainments of modern mechanics. At St. Louis’ Hall of Ma-
chinery, for example, the Westinghouse factory films played to sold-out audiences. A Fair
history describes these early ‘industrials,’ which were shot by Billy Blitzer, as ‘virtual voy-

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ages’: ‘The novelty of sitting in a comfortable seat and literally taking a stroll through the
different Westinghouse plants and seeing them in full operation was one that will be remem-
bered with pleasure as long as memory lasts with those who saw the highest development of
the photographer’s art.’ 24

As Deniz Gdktiirk has shown, German travellers abroad were captivated by the
fairgrounds, but also by another developing American phenomenon, the type of industrial
organization represented by the Henry Ford car factory in Detroit, or the Chicago meat
packing houses. 25 In other words, throughout the teens, the magic of industry continued
beyond the fair to include the display of mass production at the assembly line, where human
workers and engineering skills became integrated in the ‘super-machine’ that was the mod-
em factory, 26 With Wilhelmine Germany convinced of its prowess as a leading industrial
nation, poldihutte is not only embodiment of a domestic agenda, but manifests an under-
lying desire to compete with the technological and industrial spectacles of the United
States, It suggests that besides the need to define a territorial space during the War, Germany
needed to define an image space, particularly that of modernity and progress.

But poldihutte also celebrates a technology of method, by contemplating the
efficiency of assemblage: cinema and factory were each evolving systems of ‘montage’ for
component parts. Stephen Bottomore has argued that one of the essential lessons in early
actualities was learning to make choices, that it was not necessary to include everything.
The unpredictability of events, and the fact that one could not always restage them, encour-
aged innovative editing techniques. 27 Making a virtue out of necessity results in pold-
ihutte in a non-continuous style where the obvious breaks in the temporal and spatial
action between edits are handled very creatively. Each shot and scene is designed around a
single movement, either a machine operation or a machine and worker together. A shot
becomes a micro-narrative about the completion of a motion along the assembly line: a
crane picks up a pile of coal, a magnet transports cast iron shells, a cylinder pours molten
fire onto coal or a worker positions a steel block under a grenade press. The macro- structure
of the film then organizes these sequences into the coherent framework of the progress from
raw to refined. The editing of the film can then suggest the simultaneous fragmentation and
continuity of time, the itinerative motions and repeat actions exemplified in the Taylorism of
factory production. 2S A sequential logic is still achieved by ‘reproducing the event’s (inten-
sified) abstracted representation, as opposed to reproducing its (extensive) duration.’ 26

The temporality of movement is accelerated and intensified by mechanic bodies
rather than human bodies. The workers are not made obsolete, but must refigure their mo-
tion in relation to motion economies controlled by machinery. Scientific management em-
phasized a ‘stress-free’ specialization where workers were given specific, predictable tasks.
As poldihutte shows, this mass organization of repeatable tasks can also become a tech-
nological spectacle. One expressive sequence features a factory hangar where 1500 people
operate 500 lathes, each frantically busy rotating and cutting grenades with spinning tools
and conveyor belts. The balanced and busy frame composition reflects the energetic and

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engaged atmosphere of the workers. There is one worker at each table attending to a single
grenade, the whole contained by a mechanical motion.

The only distraction in the composition is a female worker who enters the right
foreground, looks up before starting her work and stares at the camera. Her look is an invita-
tion for the camera to further investigate the individual lathes. The following two shots are
close-ups of single grenades being cut and spun. In a symmetrical presentation, the camera
returns to the initial starting point, centered on the technological reason of the assembly
room, but with the same diverting gaze in the right foreground. Both the direct address and
the close-up of the grenade have significance within poldihutte’s technological discourse.
This diverting gaze anticipates the False Maria of metropolis, a disturbance and a pleasure
in the mass production rhythm. It is both a reminder of the new female labor in the public
sphere of the factory, and a place of identification for the individual spectator in the cinema,
figuring the woman as excess also in the cinematic system. Stacked, sorted and loaded by
women, the grenades, too, become a place of spectacle and display within the technological
rationale of mass production. In fact, the grenade, Poldihutte’s Model T, is similar to Walter
Benjamin’s view of the cinema ‘on the one hand, a mechanical copy and on the other, a di-
verting spectacle .”' 1 When pulled from the pile, each weapon embodies an autonomous func-
tion as a distinct explosion, which becomes for both the worker and the spectator of poldi-
hutte, the nonrational, excessive or unstable moment within the order of the assembly
room,

poldihuttk’s technological discourse, however, manages to contain this insta-
bility within a magical theater of modernity and efficiency, just as the fairground space did,
in contemplating the wonder of the battlefield from a seat at Coney Island’s Luna Park,
These mechanical histories are part of ‘visual processing of modem life through the medi-
um of spectacular attractions ,” 1 simultaneously providing closer, exotic views, but with the
experience of distancing and separation . 32

City and Cinema

This illusion of knowledge is a significant element in a third narrative I want to explore in
poldihutte, a navigation knowledge of the modem city. I would like to begin with recall-
ing Walter Benjamin’s famous passage:

Our taverns and our metropolitan streets, our offices and furnished rooms, our
railroad stations and our factories appeared to have us locked up hopelessly.
Then came the film and burst this prison- world asunder by the dynamite of the
tenth of a second, so that now, in the midst of its far-flung ruins and debris, we
calmly and adventurously go travelling.”

Benjamin’s approximation of urban spaces and montage cinema, across the paradox of the
silent explosion that frees us for calm adventures, opens up a perspective which allows one
to consider the location of Poldihutte not only as that of a factory space, but as a city space.

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as a contained and self-sufficient world. Another level of narrative thereby unfolds, one that
intertwines visual modernism and the simultaneous familiarity and enigma of urbanism.

As part of its turn of the century continuum, poldihutte alludes to the early
travel cinema, which was prevalent between 1896 and 1906, 34 and particularly to the sub-
genre of city topics. Cameras, mounted on some means of transportation, usually a carriage,
gondola or train, transported the audience comfortably into another world. For those who
could not afford to travel, it was the chance to see the world and bring back souvenirs as
‘celluloid tourists.’ 35 For those spectators who had never experienced it, the factory was at
least as foreign a territory as any other location they did not have access to in their daily
lives. The double movement of poldihutte ! s opening reveals a great deal about the percep-
tion of charting a course. It begins with a panorama, from right to left, of the factory yard.
This mapping tactic has always been a useful device to introduce and represent the spatial
coherence of cityscapes. But here the pan is not a fixed site, but a camera mounted on a
train. Gradually, the spectator is carried through the gates, as the shot tracks forward from
the panorama movement. It is no accident that the train becomes the initial point of orienta-
tion in poldihutte as it was in many early travel films, for the window of separation be-
tween observer and observed emphasizes the experience of vision, thereby modelling spec-
tator positioning within the film theater, 36

In his study of urban non-fiction films from 1895 to 1930, Uricchio cites that the
tracking, vehicle-mounted shot was the most widely used view to introduce city scenery
between 1896 and 1912. 37 ‘The tracking shot with its exploration and penetration of space
and event recorded an intensive set of relations, as opposed to the panorama which remained
at afixed distance and recorded an extensive set of relations.’ 38 This transition from panorama
to tracking is indicative of a transgression of boundaries from outside to inside, a cue to
poldihutte’s agenda of ‘making visible the truths hidden by the city’s imposing facade.’ 39
Early cinema’s predilection for investigating urban spaces highlights what
James Donald has identified as one of the ambivalences of the modem metropolis. Donald
contrasts the ‘city as an object of knowledge and governable space, encompassing the diver-
sity, randomness and dynamism of urban life in a rational blueprint, a neat collection of
statistics, and a clear set of social norms’ with its other side, the nonrational maze of city
with its unpredictability of experiences. 4 " Such a ‘city is an overwhelming series of events
and impressions, but above all it is the individual’s psychic reaction as these events and
impressions bear dow-n on him.’ 41 If Germans were fascinated by the functionalism of Tay-
lor ethics and American modernity, they also keenly responded to urban America as a criti-
cal social experience, best represented perhaps by Upton Sinclair’s The Jungle. When trans-
lated into German in 1906, the images of perversion in Sinclair’s Chicago meat factory
provoked national debate and became a symbol of the exploitation of the worker in capital-
ist society. 42 The factory was already part of a larger purification discourse about urbanity,
based on slums, hunger and the dehumanization of technology, while the city was described
as a place not only of disease, but of visual overstimulation. 43

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In its depiction of precision and harmony, the factory-city of poldihutte
seems like a response to this urban debate, a utopia of rationality as well as of liberation.
Machines do not displace workers, but make their jobs easier. Concentrated animation eve-
rywhere. There is a sense of community among the workers as they load the trains or sup-
port steel blocks together. Train tracks are the modem roads of poldihutte, connecting the
various steel products and stages of production with each other and with the front lines. In
several scenes, this transportation network is presented as a choreography of carts. Every-
thing has a purpose and is in constant motion. The mounds of coal, eventually become
shining stacks of grenades, imitating skyscraper- 1 ike structures in their arrangement.

At the same time that poldihutte is making the factory transparent and rescu-
ing the image of mechanization, it is investigating behind the symbolic gates of the Lumiere
factory, or rather, exploring the prospects for visual pleasure within urban architecture.
Considering the cinema and the growing cities were both visual spectacles, the cinema, as
Donald suggests in his commentary on the Benjamin passage quoted above, becomes the
perfect compass through the urban myth. 44 Such a compass is poldihutte, recording the
liberating consequences for the camera, while making room, within its rationalist ideology,
for an expressivity of fascination, based on techniques such as deep staging, dramatic light-
ing, long takes and the visualization of sound. Two stylistic devices I would like to highlight
in particular are mise-en- scene and depth of field.

By climbing higher and wider, one of the first effects of this urban architecture
was the shrinkage of the human figure. From a cinematic perspective, the architecture de-
manded a more complex spatial and compositional framing. Within the Poldihutte world,
cranes, ceilings and train tracks define frame limits as replacements for the human scale.
The heights of the buildings motivate the camera to tilt or pan to adequately articulate the
space. In addition, no distinction is made in the spatial expanse between inside and outside
scenes, for when the camera records within the factory walls, it often portrays a kind of
landscape of the interior. Train tracks can penetrate buildings and particularly in the scene
of the lathe room, where the tracks converge towards a vanishing point, they organize the
perspective and suggest a continuum with the distant war machine. The megastructures of
the Poldihutte steelworks are also not contained within the frame, such as the overhead
crane, which due to its constant movement transgresses frame boundaries. This off-frame
space encourages a visual curiosity and suspense about the course of the equipment’s ma-
noeuvres.

In addition, the film rarely conveys information by fragmenting the space. Rath-
er, the autonomy of a shot ‘insists upon an experienced continuum through movement/ 45
Uricchio has noted that scene dissection, occurring in fictional cinema between 1907 and
1908, is in non-fiction film omitted in favor of self-sufficiency. ‘Rather than cutting to some
distant portion or detail of an initial image, non-fiction representation [from 1895 to 1920]
required that the complete fabric of relations from the initial image to the detail, be experi-
enced through a continuous and unbroken movement,’ 46 The worker, the steel works and the

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machine are more often than not represented in the same shot. This depth of field is not an
aid for comprehending the actual mechanics, but rather conveys an impression of the new
space or territory it occupies. It is as if the spatial homogeneity attempted to establish a
representational mode that gives human vision a new scale within the factory /city.

Kristin Thompson has identified these expressive devices as a distinct interna-
tional current in fiction films between 1913 and 1919, seeing them as the background for the
avant-garde cinema of the twenties. Despite the breaks in circulation, these elements of
expressivity were simultaneously evident in several countries before and during the war. 47
‘The point here is that generic and stylistic developments of the 1910’s prepared the way for
expressionism, and caligari, however great its stylistic challenges were, did not appear in
a vacuum.’ 48 If poldihutte does indeed contribute to international expressivity in Thom-
pson’s sense, then it is a reminder of how urgent it is to soften the divide between fiction and
non-fiction: ‘Devices and techniques which may have owned their existence to the contin-
gencies of filming a real event, became in turn, after being adopted by filmmakers intent on
exploiting the topical value of the subject matter, the very conventions of the fiction film.’ 49
The real event and given geography of steel production encourages the spontaneity in loca-
tion shooting and determines distinctive compositions or depths of space. But the uses to
which it puts the ‘real event’ makes poldihutte an excellent reminder that it is necessary to
look beyond commercial cinema for some of the transformations in film history. The quality
of urban observation, penetration and surveillance underlying this ‘non-fiction’ factory film
would become the very gateway through which different kinds of modernism in the twen-
ties would continue to probe, man with a movie camera, metropolis and Berlin: sym-
phony of a big city, to name but a few, all explore the duality of fantasy and function
within modem urban spheres and elaborate on the consequences for the community and
individual.

The cinema of the teens existed within a context of upheavals and of refiguring
borders and identities. Benjamin’s dictum about the ‘prison-world’ reflects a violence of
perception (‘ruins and debris’) while pointing to the cinema as its simultaneous liberation.
poldihutte is situated precariously on such a boundary: utilizing an explosive medium to
turn a factory inside out, it also functions as a container for sensibilities that yearn for social
and technological order. Visual fascination and rational visibility are ambiguous impulses
connecting the discourses of war, technology and the city, but they have shaped the history
of early cinema, poldihutte’s simultaneous reflections back and forward, from the Lu-
mieres to metropolis, are indicative of multiplicities and non-synchronicities, disturbing
any ordered hierarchy of linear progression from performance or ‘attraction’ to fiction or
‘narrative,’ The story of the Poldihutte steelworks, then, cannot be exclusively read as the
progress from coal to iron to steel, but must be followed also through its transformations as
a grenade, as an exhibition at Coney Island or as a skyscraper which in turn become points
of entrance into poldihutte ’s own multiple histories or house of mirrors.

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From a Pinschewer trick film (ca.1920)

202

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Section III

Film Style and Intertexts:

Authors , Films and Authors 9 Films

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Max Mack:

The Invisible Author

Michael Wedel

Between Author and Audience

Looking back in 1 920, at the end of what indeed was to remain the most productive decade
of his career. Max Mack was convinced that future historians would acknowledge the sig-
nificance of his films for the development of German cinema,' By then he had directed
nearly 100 films of all conceivable genres, among them some of the most successful and
popular films the German cinema of the teens had produced. Ironically, however, when
critical or trade attention was paid to these films, it often happened without his name being
mentioned at all. Mack’s der andere, the first Autorenfilm , based on a play by the then
famous author Paul Lindau and bringing, with Albert Bassermann, onto the screen for the
first time one of Germany’s most renowned stage actors, derived for most historians its
lasting significance more from its cultural references to the literary and theatrical establish-
ment than from any particular stylistic elements attributable to the director. In its reference
to motifs from modem psychology and literature, der andere figured, for Siegfried
Kracauer, for instance, as an exemplary foreboding of German cinema’s symptomatic ob-
session with the double, from which other film historians extrapolated the crisis of the male
bourgeois identity.* Paradoxically, it might have been the very notoriety of der andere for

Max Mack and
Franz von Sehon
man in wo 1ST
COLETTl? (1913)

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wo 1ST COLETT1?
( 1913 )

all subsequent retrospective histories of the German cinema which blanked out the name of
its director and blocked off any closer attention given to the work of one of the most versa-
tile, prolific but also enigmatic directors of the teens.

In this sense, the still photograph which opens the film and shows Lindau,
Bassermann and Mack assembled around the writer’s massive writing desk became em-
blematic for the cinema’s cultural transition into the ‘bourgeois’ sphere of traditional cultur-
al production. But already a variation of this opening in another of Mack’s so-called Au -
torenfilme problematizes this notion: in wo ist coletti? the author of the treatment, Franz
von Schonthan, witnesses how Mack conjures up the actors in a series of trick shots which
set up the action-packed scenes that follow, a mise-en-abyme that culminates in a repetition
of this opening in front of a cinema audience within the film at the very end. The trajectory
from the author to the audience which is described in wo ist coletti? is indicative for the
transformation of the literary source material into the performative space of cinema. The all
too often neglected agent of these complex processes of transformation is, of course, the
film director. Max Mack himself has repeatedly defined his role as a ‘mediator between the
author and the audience.’ 3 According to Mack, the early teens were

an epoch when each film was an experiment, and when there was no authority in
power to tell what the public wanted; when the problem had to be solved of
expressing intelligibly to a new audience a vision of a story in terms of a lan-
guage which was silent, and in pictures which were moving pictures, without
having any examples of this kind in the past to point the way. 4

In solving this practical problem, the primary requirement of a film director consisted in an
‘optical sensibility’ 5 that could convey narrative information by visual means such as fram-
ing 6 and character movement. 7 In what follows I shall take my cue from the first of Mack’s

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films made in collaboration with a literary author, Heinrich Lautensack, to trace some of the
stylistic strategies and experimentations aimed at rendering basic narrative information in a
comprehensible manner to a cinema audience - an audience which ZWEIMAL GELEBT, due
to censorship restrictions, has apparently never seen in Wilhelmine Germany.

Visual Codification of Narrative Oppositions in zweimal GELEBT

Released as one of the first ‘art- films’ of the newly founded Continental-Kunstfilm GmbH,
zweimal gelebt (‘Lived Twice’) begins with a happy nuclear family - father, mother and
daughter - whose happiness is destroyed when, on her parents’ wedding-anniversary,* the
little girl only narrowly escapes being hit by a car, and her mother suffers a nervous break-
down necessitating her committal to a sanatorium. During the mother’s stay there, the doc-
tor in charge falls in love with her. Shortly after he notifies her husband in a telephone call
about the need to keep her in the sanatorium for further observation, the mother suffers a
serious relapse. She loses consciousness and is declared dead by the doctor, who informs
her desperate family via a telegramme. Two days later the doctor visits the chapel where her
body awaits burial. The woman suddenly rises from her coffin, apparently recovered but
suffering total amnesia. The doctor immediately seizes his chance to keep the love object to
himself, and without informing her family of the turn of events, takes her abroad. Six
months later, the bereaved father takes his daughter on holidays, and as fate would have it,
their paths cross. Observing the playing child, the woman suddenly regains her memory and
with it, an awareness of her intolerable situation. Tom between the two men, she commits
suicide by jumping from a bridge. 9

As already indicated in the title, it is clear from the story-line that the film’s narra-
tive works on a set of oppositions derived from the main one between the woman’s ‘two lives’:
before and after her apparent death. However, the basic split not only generates several differ-
ent female roles (mother/wife vs. patient/lover), but also motivates different roles for the hus-
band - who now has to replace wife and mother as well as for the doctor who turns into
lover, while even the daughter is split, by taking over, to a certain degree at least, the role of the
mother in relation to the father. These broad oppositions are prepared by the division of the
story space into the two different action spaces, home vs. sanatorium/chapel, each ascribed to
one of the men and juxtaposed by parallel editing, in turn diegetically motivated by different
forms of communication between the two men (telephone, telegramme).

This spatial split on the story level is established in two shots (9 and 10) when
the mother is left in the sanatorium by her family. Their particular spatial articulation can be
regarded as the centre of the film also on several formal levels. Both shots, by using a
diegetically impossible camera view, show two rooms at once by panning ‘through’ a wall
which appears in the middle of the frame. 10 At first glance the two shots have the same
spatial structure, but closer inspection reveals that all characters - with the exception of the
female protagonist - are substituted in their placement within this structure after the cut: the
doctor is substituted by his assistant at the side of the patient’s couch; in the place of the

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assistant now stands the nurse, and instead of a third man in the frame, it is the father who
holds the child; in the centre, exactly where the father was just about to reappear from
behind the wall, the doctor now emerges in his stead. Although this peculiar pattern of
substitution might conceivably be due to a continuity error during the shooting, it instanti-
ates a structural strategy of character substitution which fulfills a dominant narrative func-
tion throughout the film. The wall renders visible a spatial narrative code of left/right screen
division, which has been at work from the outset, and which in the further course of the
narrative continues to constitute the Film’s key area of narrative articulation. This division
ascribes the right side of the screen to the mother, while the left side is associated with the
two men, respectively. It is through this spatial organization that desire and loss, as the two
foremost narrative concerns, are codified.

Narrative and Psychological Space I: Desire

The female protagonist appears almost exclusively on the right half of the screen, be it as the
loving wife and mother of the opening shot, be it as the patient in the sanatorium (shots 1 3 and
14, 23 and 24), or as the apparent corpse in the chapel (29, 31, 33). The left half of the screen
space is in a first instance alternatively shared by the two men, and the visualization of their
desire leaves the right space ‘empty ’ in terms of character density, most visibly in the sequence
after the doctor’s love for the patient is revealed, and in which he infonns the husband via
telephone about the necessity of her extended stay in the sanatorium (shots 15-21). Compared
to the opening shot of the film, shot 15 (the first of this sequence and the first to return to the
location of the family living room) sets up a strong pattern of repetition, variation, and substi-
tution in terms of who occupies whose initial space. This time, we find the daughter already on
the right side of the screen, a space that was exclusively occupied by her mother in shot 1.
After a few seconds, the father enters the shot through the door in the background centre (as
did the mother in the opening shot), whereupon the daughter stands up and runs towards him.
Both sit down on the chair in the foreground left, exactly where they had been when the film
began, except that now the mother’s absence is doubly marked by the armchair on the right
half of the screen remaining empty. The father, then, picks up the phone and dials. Shot 1 6 cuts
back to the mother’s room in the hospitat, where the doctor is told by a nurse to answer the call.
In shot 17 we see the doctor already in his office at the phone on the left side of the screen.
Parallel to the spatial organization of the domestic scene in shot 15, in the hospital the right
half of the frame is codified as that of the absent love object signified by the now empty couch,
where the doctor first encountered her when she was brought in as a patient (shot 9). This
parallelism is further pronounced by a cut back to the disappointed father and daughter who
are still in the same position on screen. The father then kisses his daughter with a vehemence
and passion hovering between desire and despair, in the very space on screen where he had
kissed his wife in shot 1 . Finally, both, now' knowing that the w'ife/mother would stay away a
longer period, move over to the sofa on the right side of the screen, thus occupying ‘her’ space
for the first time.

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It would seem, therefore, that the spatial codification of desire works on a speci-
fic division of the screen, which runs the emotional states of the two male protagonists in
tandem, thanks to a strong ‘visual rhyme' created through the interaction of story space
(location), shot space (left/right division), and continuity/contiguity space (parallel editing).
The use of parallel editing for character psychology had been explored in the American
cinema since 1908/9, most notably in the melodramas shot by D.W, Griffith, 11 familiar to
German audiences from at least 1910 onwards. 12 In zweimal gelebt, however, the editing
pattern deviates in emphasis from Griffith's psychological editing in its much more elabo-
rated visual composition of the noncentered shot space. It is on this level that the narration
articulates the sequence’s psychological substance most visibly, creating significant analo-
gies and variations in relation to earlier shots in both the doctor’s and the father’s sphere.
The organization of the shot space moreover reveals several important sub-structures con-
nected to the characters’ psychology. As indicated, shot 15 reveals the father’s tendency to
replace his wife by penetrating the spaces she had previously filled, and to displace his
(sexual) desire onto his daughter. The doctor’s desire, on the other hand, causes no such
displacing activity, since it is he who is now ‘in possession’ of the desired woman. In his
sphere, the right screen space is still reserved for her, her absence being only temporary - a
hypothesis which is underlined by the metaphorical placement of a huge wall clock in the
background right. While the father’s desire is thus already infiltrated with the negative signs
of loss and substitution, the doctor’s desire as it is visually represented can still hope for
fulfillment.

Narrative and Psychological Space II: Loss

Analogous to the sequence just described, the characters’ experience of what they assume to
be the definite loss of the desired woman ( the reaction of the two men faced with the hero-
ine’s death) is expressed equally by parallel editing and left/right division of the screen,
whereby several motifs are reverted, confirmed and strengthened. Early in shot 25, the long-
est shot of the whole film, 13 we see how the daughter is put to bed in her room by a maid who
is introduced here for the first time, thus reinforcing the notion of replacement of the moth-
er. Once more, the father, who enters the shot through a door on the right, and the maid, who
then exits by the same door, pass through the right space and create a spatial balance which
clearly contrasts with the earlier unstable shot composition articulated in order to create a
sense of desire. The maid briefly reappears again from the right to deliver the telegramme
with the news of his wife’s death. The film’s only insert communicates the news to the
spectator (‘We herewith comply with our sad duty to inform you about the demise of your
wife. The Sanatorium’). The father, who read the telegramme while standing centre frame,
now sinks into a chair placed foreground left in front of the daughter’s bed, reestablishing
the familiar spatial division of the previous shot. As before, he takes his daughter in his arms
and hugs her intensely. Though the right shot space is now deserted again, the connotation
with the mother is much weaker since the space has been kept busy by the maid and the

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ZWEJMA1.

GELEBT (1912)

father just before. The loss of the heroine seems accepted, her maternal and sexual roles
filled by other females.

The visual composition of the shots in which the doctor assimilates the feeling
of loss reveals a variation which is most crucial for the psychological motivation of the
further narrative outcome. Although the doctor is present at the moment of her relapse, the
film delays showing his psychological reaction, giving us that of the father instead. But
following the sequence in the daughter’s bedroom and, as w r e are told by an intertitle, two
days later in diegetic time, a shot visualises the doctor’s desire: he sits at his desk in his
office in the left half of the shot, w ith the wall clock and the couch on the right. Immediately,
a strong sense of contrast is established w-ith the spatial organization of the shots located in
the daughter’s bedroom, where this visual imbalance was constantly transformed. We then
cut to the mother lying in state in the chapel, before an intertitle describes the doctor’s
feelings {'His thoughts are still with the beloved dead woman’) and returns us to the doc-
tor’s office. Still in the same position, his look is kept off-screen, while the image of the
mother is superimposed on the right half of the screen between the couch in the foreground
and the wall clock at the rear. Only after her visualisation has disappeared does the doctor
move over to the couch on the right.

In both cases, then, the space of the mother is not left unoccupied as it was
almost without exception throughout the previous part which articulated the desire of the
two male protagonists. Now, as she is assumed to be irretrievably lost to both, the space
attributed to her is filled, but differently for each of the men. Against the mobility and inter-
changeability of roles in the domestic space, the compositions signifying the doctor’s psy-
chological state ‘recreate’ the woman in her space with no trace of replacement, connoting
the constancy and duration of grief through the repetition of the spatial structure. When, in

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the next shots, the woman re-awakens in his presence, the same textual operation of visual
structure and narrative psychology is at work, once more ‘resurrecting’ her in her space. In
this sense, the visual codification of the shot space functions in a first instance to clarify the
narrative’s psychological motivation and thus supports the intelligibility of the narrative
development, but it also provides a rationale by which the audience can accept as justified
an action otherwise morally reprehensible and professionally criminal.

Narrative under Erasure: The Heroine's Suicide

The narrative’s outcome, the heroine’s suicide, results from the final conversion of the dif-
ferent narrative spheres - the sphere of the doctor and the sphere of the father. In shot 47, we
see the heroine by the seaside, still not aware of her daughter’s and former husband’s pres-
ence, appearing diagonally from behind a tree and moving from background right to fore-
ground centre. After a cut we then see her daughter at another point on the shoreline, occu-
pying the same shot space foreground centre, a visual ‘substitution’ additionally under-
scored by the fact that behind her to the right we find a small tree, whose branches frame the
upper space of the shot, just as those of the big tree did in the previous shot with the mother.
In shot 49 the daughter appears from behind the tree in the right background and moves
diagonally to foreground left, now face to face w r ith her mother, who stands up and looks
alternately at her and offscreen right. 14 As the following intertitle reveals, it is the moment
she regains her memory.

The daughter rushes offscreen background right, with the mother following her
to the tree, behind which she hides when the daughter reappears with her father crossing the
space to the foreground of the shot (the mother gliding around the tree to remain hidden, but
visible for the viewer). Not finding her, father and daughter leave the shot foreground left,
allowing the mother to regain her initial position foreground centre, giving vent to her de-
spair. While indebted to the proscenium space of the theatre, with entrances and exits, and
the tree standing in for stage props, the sequence works through the very codes - lateral
screen division, spatial substitution and visual rhymes, diagonal character movement, cam-
era movement, framing - by which the characters have been granted psychological profile
throughout the different stages of the action. At the end of the sequence, the woman is
positioned centre frame, not only by general consent the weakest point on screen for a
character to be, but through the specific codification in this film, a position which cannot be
correlated to any of her former roles as mother, wife, patient or lover. The final sequence
keeps her in the centre of the shot, while - reminiscent of the spatial overcoding in shots 9
and 10 - a line of trees distinctly segments the space around her. And, just as the wall
signified the split between the tw'o spheres of the male protagonists, shot 52 superimposes
the two men in front of the two nearest trees on either side of her. In the next shot she climbs
over the railings of the bridge, just visible in the background of the previous shots, and
jumps. The line of her fall symmetrically splits the screen in two, at once closing the narra-
tive and literally ‘erasing’ its visual articulation.

211 Max Mack: The Invisible Author

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Flickering Screens

In devising critical paradigms for cinematic narration, subjectivity and character psycholo-
gy most of film theory has been conceived around the visual system of classical continuity
cinema. Among film theorists, it is commonly held that filmic narration works primarily
through a set of textual operations by means of interlocking shots, which are sometimes
seen as the equivalent of syntactic relationships in linguistic discourse. Classical devices of
continuity editing and cinematic suture, such as scene dissection, shot/reverse shot patterns
and point-of-view editing, have traditionally been privileged over the composition of the
individual shot, rarely explored for its function and value in conveying narrative informa-
tion and character psychology. In turn, early cinema’s different articulation of time, space,
and causality - often essentially based on the internal organization of the single shot - is
generally regarded as ‘ab-(sic!)psychological at its most characteristic ,’ 15

The example of zweimal gelebt, however, clearly suggests that with the advent
of the industrial mode of the l Monopolfilm’ and the transition to longer films conveying narra-
tive information did not mean a switch to unilinear ‘Iiterarisation’ of film , 16 but a dialectical
process whereby narrative codes became transposed into the visual space of the cinema. Max
Mack’s coherent - and thus apparently conscious - deployment, of visual rhymes and spatial
codes in zweimal gelebt further problematizes the assumption that the internationally so
uneven transitions to narrative filmmaking can be measured by the yardstick of a historical
master-narrative told from the retro-perspective of the ‘dominant,’ the industrial mode of con-
tinuity cinema as it might have been the norm in American filmmaking of the mid-teens , 17 As
the brief comparison to Griffith’s early melodramas suggests, international influences are all
too often subject to culturally specific redefinitions and appropriations. Such refigurations as
can be observed in zweimal gelebt point to the larger cultural field of force within which the
German cinema in particular was seeking legitimacy, and therefore its public, for whom the
theatre experience, for instance, constituted a significant intermediary reference point. In this
sense, the triangularity of emblematic openings in later films, showing author, star and director,
only seems to epitomize the different spaces folded into this process: the story space of the
narrative, the filmic space of the screen, the performative space of the acting, and the imaginary
space that results for the audience in the cinema . 18 This double- and triple-coding inherent in
the articulations of cinematic space must make us wary of any direct reading of filmic patterns
or motifs in the essentially literary terms of ‘influence’ or ‘authorship.’ Mack’s simultaneous
presence in and absence from the films he directed is thus symptomatic: given the many refer-
ences in his writings to contemporary stage practices, painting, landscape photography, and
music hall variety culture, the veiy stylistic simplicity or apparent backwardness of a film like
zweimal gelebt could well reveal itself to be the palimpsest whose code is no longer in our
hands. Historically speaking, however, the very professionalism with which Mack was able to
bind together different textual authorities and cultural frames within one cinematic space,
while clearly in tune with the sensibilities of contemporary audiences, spells out the logic that
made him one of the German cinema’s most popular directors of the teens.

212 Michael Wedel

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From Peripetia to Plot Point: Heinrich
Lautensack and zweimal gelebt (1912)

Jurgen K as ten

In German cinema history 1912 was to be the year of the two-acter. Films of over 600
metres in length were marketed as blockbusters, and in the selections of films sent for exhi-
bition in provincial cinemas, it was stressed that they included a two-acter. 1 It was also the
year in which Gerhard Lamprecht's index of German silent films first made any real refer-
ence to scriptwriters. Lamprecht lists nine film writers for 1912, Although this almost cer-
tainly underestimates the numbers for 1912 and the preceding years, the advent of the two-
acter at least helped acknowledge the existence of qualified scriptwriters in the industry.
The two-acter called for a different kind of dramaturgy: the extension of story' length de-
manded a development of the story's continuity, causality and complexity. There was there-
fore a demand for writers who could take on the dramaturgy, reduction of genre, character
and plot which had already been developed (and which characterised the one-acter) and
expand this in a systematic way. To well-known writers this would have constituted unap-
pealing, exacting work, and the task fell instead to authors prepared to meet the demands of
a functional narrative and dramaturgical development. 2

Heinrich Lautensack

213 Heinrich Lautensack and ZWEIMAL GELEBT

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By 1913, the famous Autorenfilm year, authors had already infiltrated the Ger-
man film industry. These were not prominent literary figures such as Arthur Schnitzler,
Gerhart Hauptmann or Hugo von Hofmannsthal, but belletrists, journalists and those au-
thors who were not often published or performed, and who approached film in a profession-
al manner and changed the thematic and dramaturgical nature of the medium. Authors like
Walter Schmidthassler, Walter Turszinsky and Heinrich Lautensack not only came up with
scripts, they also joined film companies, around 1911/12, as permanent employees. The
films that they scripted, however, were not as a rule marketed under the effective label of
Autorenfilm. Turszinsky was working for Messter until 1915, while Schmidthassler co-
founded Continental Kunstfilm in 191 1. In 1912/13 this company appointed the dramatist
Heinrich Lautensack, a financial victim of censorship, as dramaturg and head of advertis-
ing. He had been similarly employed before at Deutsche Bioscop. 3 Lautensack’s first
project as scriptwriter for Continental - at least the first that we are aware of today - was the
drama die macht der jugend. At 605 metres it counted as a two-acter and had its premiere
on 25 May 1912. What remains of his work today is the treatment for das ist der krieg
from 1913, a complete script for zwischen himmel und erde (1913), 4 and his third film
for Continental, zweimal gelebt (1912), 5

Parallel Plots and Conflict Development

Although there is no statistical material on hand to support this claim, it is fairly safe to say
that a large proportion of the conflicts in German silent films of the early teens developed
out of threats to the familial way oflife. This is how zweimal gelebt opens. In an extreme-
ly cut-down exposition, framed by the intertitle ‘Happiness’ and ‘An unhappy turn of
events,’ Lautensack presents us with the early silent film’s most popular theme - the happy
family. When the daughter is run over by a car, 6 the mother suffers a nervous breakdown. It
is no accident that she is conveyed to a nearby sanatorium in an ‘antiquated’ means of
transport - a horse-drawn carriage. 7 It comes as something of a surprise that the husband is
much more concerned for his daughter (who looks as fit as a fiddle) than for his wife. The
somewhat unnecessary ‘filler’ scene showing father and daughter leaving the sanatorium is
also quite astounding. Its significance becomes apparent, however, when one recalls the
scenes in which various characters leave rooms. The senior doctor had just asked the hus-
band to go to the waiting room. Now he sends a nurse out of the ward where the woman lies
unconscious. Alone with her at last, he gives the woman a long look and fleetingly takes her
hand in his. Then comes an intertitle to explain what the apparently inept narrative build up
was hinting at: ‘The doctor has fallen in love with his patient.’

There is no indication that Max Mack, the director of the film, made either scenic,
spatial or gestural directions for this incident, which, in the moral and hierarchical climate of
the day, could be judged nothing short of scandalous. Solely the dramaturgy of entrances -
which aims at bringing woman and doctor together in a spatial sense - hints at the actual Field
of conflict: the desire of a man in love with a married woman who is now ‘delivered’ to him

214 Jurgen Hasten

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in a relationship of physical dependency. In kissing the unconscious woman, the doctor is
violating the doctor-patient relationship. The way in which this head doctor of a sanatorium
treats this wife and mother anticipates the conduct of the director of the institution towards
the somnambulist Cesare in das cabinet des dr. caligari (1919/20). Although zweimal
gelebt for the most part avoids a passionate physical relationship between the doctor and
the woman (and also her husband), the sexual tension between the characters provides the
film’s real dramatic core. This becomes particularly clear if we look at the narrative mode.

In zweimal gelebt, as in many of his dramas - Hahnenkampf (1908), Die
Pfarrhauskomodie (1911) or Das Geliibde (1916, presumably written in 1914) as well as
the film entsagungen - it is an outsider who sets the genuine dramatic action in motion.
He disturbs the equilibrium within the family (the car accident being a mere external stim-
ulus) and thereby also upsets the wider social order. At first the doctor is integrated into the
family drama. The camera is intent on keeping both him and the husband and the two spaces
of the surgery and the waiting room in the frame, through the use of a panning shot. The
dramatic panning shot, and the realistic use of space have a completely negative effect, but
serve also to develop the story on two parallel levels. 8 Initially, this is motivated by the plot,
since it is logical that the husband cannot remain in the sanatorium. And it is once again
based on causality and time when the husband, in the next scene, telephones the doctor to
find out how his wife is progressing. At this point the doctor has already left the family plot.
He has been given his own storyline, which now also includes the wife. Lautensack makes
very clever use of narrative technique, managing to provide narrative space for the conflict
which up until that point could only be explained indirectly, by splitting up the plot into two.

This is most clearly evidenced in the way that the parallel scenes are placed in
relation to each other. Once the doctor has kissed the wife, the physical tension appears to be
passed on to the husband as well: In the following sequence he kisses and caresses his
daughter with rare intensity, before telephoning the doctor about his wife. Another unusual
factor is the parallel matching of the fight against death with a scene in which the father and
an attractive maid put the daughter to bed. The father’s physical demeanour towards his
daughter and the spatial positioning of the maid indicates that the wife has been supplanted. 9
In the filmic discontinuity of the parallel plot, a narrative space is formed beyond the events
shown, despite the close association of time and plot. It is in this space that the conflict
develops and the counter-plot is prepared. This counter-plot takes centre stage in a radical
manner at the end of the sequence, marking a turning point in the film.

The Dramatic Power of the Turning Point ( Plot Point)

The author has the indignity not to show us the family grieving in their home or give us a
farewell to the deceased loved one in the chapel, open coffin and all. What we do get is a
radical change in perspective. It is no longer the family, in its joy or sorrow, that takes
centre stage, as seemed to have been the case. It is the doctor, slumped over his desk, aban-
doned to his obsession - made visible with the presentation of the woman in double expo-

215 Heinrich Lautensack and ZWEIMAL GELEBT

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sure. The doctor’s innermost desires are laid bare, and at an extremely inappropriate mo-
ment. 10 This marks a radical discontinuity at the level of what the spectator anticipates
from the storyline.

One-acters had also been known to present sudden turning points. The Aristote-
lian concept of peripeteia was characteristic of a dramaturgy of tension, and a story often
closed with a surprise happy ending or a tragedy. Early German scriptwriters were aware of
the need for peripeteia somewhere in the middle of the plot. 1 ’ The American school of script-
writing, which regards the turning points as the principal elements of the story (plot points),
was not widely esteemed in Germany. 12 And yet Heinrich Lautensack uses them in zweimal
gelebt as the central dramatic cornerstones, switching points and motivating forces of the
plot. They not only provide the narrative space for the second act, but also provide the
conflict with a direct formulation, depth and a considerable ‘dying fall/ As a result, the
characters and causal connections between the two main characters become more transpar-
ent, and tension is increased. Such a use of turning points, with such a dynamic effect upon
the story, is unusual for a film of this period.

Also noteworthy is the way in which Lautensack uses odd moments of fantasy to
carve out psychological dimensions in the characters, for example, by providing visual pro-
jections of their obsessions and psychological states by blending in characters who are not
actually present, or in horror-filmesque incidents such as the transportation of the woman’s
corpse out of the morgue. With the aid of motivic and filmic excess, we are shown flashes of
fantasy and introspection unusual for 1912, but which were to infiltrate German cinema
more generally with the two artistically ambitious films der andere (1912/13) and der
student von prag (1913). Films such as zweimal gelebt or the Henny Porten film der
schatten des meeres (1912) indicate that this tendency was already discernible in films
which were less ambitious in terms of production budget and target audience. 13

The doctor takes the wife abroad, to marry and - by implication — to possess her.
Six months pass. Then, during a walk in the woods, a new turning point (plot point 2) looms.
Like the admission scene in the sanatorium, where two spaces and character levels were
compressed into one image, the film once again brings a second level into the picture, in the
shape of the husband and the daughter. As the woman takes a breather on a bench, the camera
pans, bringing into view the forking path along which the husband and daughter are walking.
They pass her, separated by only a few metres. An intertitle is considered necessary to
verbalise the extraordinary spatial and dramatic tension, which is achieved once again by
compressing two actually parallel plot lines into one image in the story: ‘They come impos-
sibly close to one another.’ This time the ensuing parallel plot is not organised through
spatially disparate and temporally analogous scenes, divided by cuts, but through a minimal
temporal sequence of action brought into the same frame. The woman reaches a jetty where
she climbs into a boat and rows off, A barely visible cut to the husband and daughter doing
the same. In a long take of the lake, first one boat, then the other, enter the frame, Their paths

216 JUr gen Kaslen

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cross, without meeting directly, indicating a type of parallel editing within the image. But
alongside this filmic continuity, an associative space develops, which goes far beyond the
motif we are shown.

This is followed by a brief time lapse, and the two parallel plot strands, so close-
ly driven together, collide into one another both spatially and temporally. The collision is
outlined by a beautiful framing concept - the pine cones which the child is collecting on the
shore and which lead her inevitably to the mother that she thought was dead. The mother’s
psychological reaction as she recognises the child is depicted very precisely, but she only
takes in the truth after a double take: ‘Seeing her child again brings back her memory’
announces the intertitle. The collision with the husband is dragged out even longer, elevat-
ing the tension to new heights, as the confused, cowering woman hides behind a tree. She
watches husband and daughter look for her and then leave. This is the last shot the film
devotes to those around her. From this point on, the film concentrates solely on the fate of
the woman, in yet another change of perspective.

A Recurring Theme: The Battle between Social Norms and Emotions
The distressed woman follows one of the paths that skirt the shore of the lake until she
comes to a bridge, which marks the edge of the frame. Once again, a double exposure is
used to render visible, in a fantastic way, the essence of her dilemma and her emotional
state: She is standing between two trees when the two men appear, each of them leaning
against a tree. She perceives the conflict. But at the same time her internalised moral code is
activated. She is forced to recognise that she has committed adultery, abandoned her child,
and is probably guilty of bigamy. 14 Both men reach out to her. She presses her hands to her
head, and the double exposure - and the two men - disappear. Not a moment’s thought is
devoted to the fact that the woman bears no responsibility for the course events have taken
or even that she followed her true feelings. The bridge, standing in solitary splendour in the
background, is not only the vanishing point of the image but also of her destiny. With rigor-
ous consistency the melodrama demands that women atone for not following the path of
virtue, whatever reasons they might have for doing so.

Heinrich Lautensack is familiar with such a tragic pattern of conflict. In the
dramas Hahnenkampf , Das Geliibde or the one-acter Lena , 15 he demonstrates the irrecon-
cilable tension between the wish to act out one’s sexual desires and the religious, social and
moral norms which stand in the way of such behaviour. Admittedly, Lautensack does pro-
mote a radical humanisation of dogmatic religious and moral codes, particularly when it
comes to sexuality, but he does not fundamentally question the order of the catholic, mid-
dle-class, rural way of life. The acting out of strong emotions and sexuality only seem con-
ceivable to him within this social order. 16 This prompts the failure of the woman in zwei-
mal gelebt, who feels tied to two men, as well as of the doctor, who attempts to act outside
the accepted behaviourial norms.

Only rarely does Lautensack allow his characters, immersed in a battle between

217 Heinrich Lautensack and ZWEIMAL GELEBT

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the norms of middle-class life and the driving force of intense emotions or intense sexual
desires, to withstand this conflict. In the film die macht der jugend (1912), an ageing
industrial magnate who has been leading a double life for years departs this life when he
realises that he is losing his young beloved to his nephew, entsagungen (1913) is a varia-
tion on this theme, this time involving an ophthalmologist who has saved a dancer from
blindness and who commits suicide when he realises that she is actually in love with his
nephew. In so ist der krieg (1913) a cripple turned traitor in order to possess the woman he
loves delivers himself into the hands of death when he cannot fulfil his wish. In these films 17
the social pressure on the characters to realise the relationship that they so long for or have
already initiated - a relationship that goes against all society’s moral codes - is not given
such prominence as in the dramas. However, the suicides with which Lautensack concludes
the almost insoluble conflicts in these films can be interpreted not only as the consequence
of the despair over a failed love affair but also of resignation based on social pressures to
conform.

zweimal gelebt was the object of an intensive advertising campaign, launched
on 15 June 1912. Shortly before the premiere was due to take place, however, the Film was
banned by the Berlin censor. There is no record of the film ever being shown in Germany.
The grounds for banning the film are indicated in a peculiar list of motifs: ‘a woman’s
nervous breakdown, illness, crisis, death, laying out. Waking from a feigned death, loss of
memory, the regaining of memory, a leap into the water.’ 18 Reading this, one might be
tempted to classify zweimal gelebt as a fantasy or honor film. The grounds given for
banning the film conceal the social and psychological foundations of the melodramatic turn
of events, which is certainly not there merely for sensation or as an end in itself. These
incriminating motifs must have featured in other Gentian films: Illness, crisis and a wom-
an’s death are all familiar set pieces of tragic melodrama. Anguish and the final suicide by
drowning, when a woman had overstepped the mark of the social moral code in carrying on
with a man outside the bond of marriage, form a well-established topos. How, then, do these
themes in zweimal gelebt justify the film being banned? Alongside the ruthlessly pursued
sexual desires of the doctor - together with his obsessive masculine craving for possession
- comes the scandal of the woman’s second life. The apparent legitimation of the adultery
through a tender bigamistic relationship constitutes an attack on the bourgeois family ideal.
Once again, in zweimal gelebt Heinrich Lautensack has drastically illustrated the theme
of all his dramas: the tense relationship of a given social order to the vital emotional and
sexual demands of mankind. This central - if often latent - conflict is one of the character-
istics of the German cinema in the period 1910-14.

218 Jurgen Kasten

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Giuseppe Becce and RICHARD WAGNER:
Paradoxes of the First German Film Score

Ennio Simeon

The subject, the music, the lecture and the acting of the principal characters hold
out great hopes for the succe ss of this feature. There are flashes of superb beauty
in it.

Such was the praise of the film RICHARD wagner 1 in the Moving Picture World of Novem-
ber 29th, 1913, by the American critic Stephen W. Bush. In Germany, on the other hand,
opinions were more divided: while the trade press judged rather positively, the daily press
and the journals of the cinema reformers were more laconic or sceptical, if not altogether
malicious. In the Frankfurter Zeitung of September 3rd, 1913, Leopold Schwarzschild, for
example, emphasized the moments of unintentional humour: Wagner’s father is on his
deathbed and ‘doesn’t pass away silently but instead seems to die a horrible death, suffocat-
ed by his family who trample all over him.’ 2 Stephen Bush, too, mentions absurdities but
explains them by pointing out the cinema industry’s lack of maturity: ‘This feature shows
vast improvement, but it is not wholly free from jarring traces of that amateurishness which
characterizes so many German film productions. The “early bad manner” is especially evi-
dent in the first and in parts of the second reel.’

In view of the topic’s enormous cultural importance, these deficiencies did not
overly worry the American critic. The New York performance of richard wagner in the
New Amsterdam Theater to which Stephen Bush refers was accompanied by a special com-
mentary, written and delivered by R.S. Piggot, a noted musicologist. Bush was an enthusias-
tic Wagnerian and considered the composer’s work as model for film music (which was
indeed to become the inevitable principle for Hollywood’s practice in the thirties and for-
ties). Bush was also one of the first to reflect theoretically about film as a realization of the
‘word-sound-drama’ and wished there was a complete series of film productions of Wagner
operas: ‘What manufacturer in alliance with musical skill and genius, will give us the first
example of the possibilities of instrumental synchronization of Wagnerian opera?’ 3

Although there had been quite a few films, especially German ‘Tonbilder’
(‘sound pictures’) based on excerpts of Wagner operas, 4 richard wagner is without a
doubt the first filmed biography of the master. The Messier production, directed by William
Wauer and Carl Froelich, contains a few extracts from the composer’s work which had
never before been used for the screen. At any event, even putting aside Bush’s personal
preference, reception in Germany and the USA was instructively different: the cinematical-
ly sophisticated, but culturally more naive America is interested in the film, despite the

219 Giuseppe Becce and RICHARD WAGNER

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technical defects, because one values its artistically serious subject matter. Germany, while
cinematically more retarded, has reservations about the Wagner Film, because of its own,
highly developed music culture. Simplifying a little, one might say: ‘in Germany consid-
ered cultural sacrilege, the fdm is a success in the United States.’ 5

For the Messter Film GmbH richard wagner signified a move into new territo-
ry. On the occasion of the composer’s 100th birthday, Oskar Messter offered the bourgeois
public an ambitious cinematographic tribute to its favourite musical figure, while also dar-
ing to take a great step towards a ‘new film genre.’ 6 By producing one of the first biograph-
ical fdms ever, Messter attempts, in the year 1913 - the year of the Autorenfilm - to break
into the traditional area of literature. Without false modesty, richard wagner is advertised
in the trade press as ‘one of the most interesting films of the year. 1 Apart from questions of
film marketing strategies and questions of genre, this film biography is interesting also as a
source for the Wagner cult of the teens. A number of inaccuracies, omissions and distortions
illustrate the intention to purge the film biography of any details that might adversely affect
the image of the composer. Wagner’s relationship with Mathilde Wesendonk, for instance, is
shown as purely platonic, and Cosima enters Wagner’s life only once she is officially sepa-
rated from her husband Hans von Biilow. Thus, richard wagner is best not judged by how
accurate its content is, but as a manifestation of the Wagner cult in Wilhelmine Germany
after the turn of the century, which the film both promotes and reflects.

In this context, the music used plays a special role. Initially, the film biography
was to have a score of original Wagner music, but according to Messter ‘negotiations with
the parties concerned broke down, due to the extraordinarily high financial demands, reach-
ing a sum close to half a million mark.’ 1 Apparently, Wagner’s heirs insisted on such an
outrageous sum because they were anxious not to have the master’s sacred music associated
with the notoriety of cinematography, and thus perhaps damage Wagner’s reputation. Be-
cause of the physical likeness, Messter had already engaged the Italian composer Giuseppe
Becce for the main part of Wagner, in addition to Becce’s experience as a conductor. When
it became clear that no Wagner music could be used, the producer commissioned his main
actor also to act as the film’s composer. The music for richard wagner is not in fact a
wholly original score. Messter Film GmbH’s published piano score of the film is precise on
this: ‘richard wagner. A film biography. Accompanying music arranged and partially
composed by Dr. G. Becce.’ 8

That many so-called original film music scores were not entirely original is ob-
vious when reading the General Handbook of Film Music , edited by Hans Erdmann (re-
sponsible for the theoretical section) and Giuseppe Becce (the practical examples) in 1927,
About original scores, called ‘Authors’ Illustrations,’ they add by way of a commentary that
‘it is difficult to determine exactly the extent to which “really new compositions” were
created, and how much was “half and half.’” 9

Usually, historians of film music are mostly interested in scores that were newly
composed throughout. But in order to understand the development of film music dramaturgy

220 Ennio Simeon

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and film-specific musical language, it is imperative to include compilations and works of ‘half
and half’ in the analysis. From the vantage point of original film music, two other pieces of
Becce’s work, created for Messier productions, might appear more rewarding: the score for
comtesse ursel by Hans Oberlander (1913) and schuldig by Curt A. Stark (1914) are au-
tonomous compositions. And yet, Becce’s score for richard wagner is especially revealing
for music historians because it contains, apart from Becce’s own work, a number of musical
themes and motifs taken from the already extant repertoire.

It may sound paradoxical, but the parts of the score where Becce uses arrange-
ments are more interesting than the pieces specially composed by him. The peculiarity of the
arrangements used for richard wagner lies in the choice of composers whose music is
deemed to accompany the stations of Wagner’s musical life history. The apprentice years of
the master, in particular, are mostly accompanied by Haydn and Mozart and eventually
Beethoven; furthermore, there are pieces chosen for their geographical and ethnic connota-
tions (the Polish hymn during a Polish banquet) or because they evoke a political situation
(the Marseillaise when Wagner is escaping the uprisings in Dresden), The latter is entirely in
keeping with international arranging practices of the time. Viennese classics, on the other
hand, were not popular and rarely used for silent movies. The Handbook contains a ‘themat-
ical register of scales’ which systematizes a method of musical illustrations. For the most
diverse film subjects it suggests hundreds of pieces to the film musician, yet it contains only
three Beethoven compositions, four by Haydn and about twenty by Mozart. From other
preserved compilations for silent movie music, one can similarly conclude that film musi-
cians rarely fell back on the Viennese Classics. Becce’s score for richard wagner is thus
not only the first film music for a German production, which mixes compilation and original
compositions, but one that constitutes - at the very beginning of German film music - a
unique phenomenon that significantly deviates from the subsequent developments in film
music practice.

What might have motivated the Italian composer to call upon the Viennese clas-
sics for richard wagner? Becce’s choice evidently had to do with the film’s overall aim of
glorifying Wagner unconditionally. Entirely in line with Richard Wagner’s own teleological
perspective, Becce suggests to the audience a history of German music where the Viennese
classics lead directly to Bayreuth. Even Giacomo Rossini, whom Wagner, in his writings,
considered one of his main adversaries, is used by Becce to underscore this perspective; at
the beginning of the film’s second act, one sees young Wagner conduct, and Becce places
the overture of the Barber of Seville on the conductor’s stand, with a note in the score
indicating the music should be ‘adapted closely to Wagner,’ Becce’s choice is motivated,
since, during his time in Riga, Wagner did indeed primarily conduct Italian opera. In act
four, Rossini is used differently: here the Wilhelm Tell overture matches the rhythmical
movements of the people’s uprising. The General Handbook recommends this overture for
‘crowd scenes,’ ‘society events,’ ‘hunting trips.’ 10

Becce’s compilation score thus constructs a musical equivalent of the Wagner

221 Giuseppe Becce and RICHARD WAGNER

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film itself, including all of the latter's pretensions, presumptions and naiveties. The choice
of musical pieces targets a new, educated audience, whom Messter and his competitors were
keen to attract to the cinema. Meanwhile, German reactions were much divided over the
intentions of the music in the Wagner film and its effects. To quote once more Leopold
Schwarzschild: ‘The music plays the minuet from Don Giovanni , after disfiguring the G
Minor Symphony,’ and he mocks Becce’s new compositions, written self-evidently and at
length ‘a la maniere de Wagner’: Becce ‘makes desperate efforts to imitate the Senta-bal-
lad.’ 11 Schwarzschild’s unfavourable review of the film’s score might be due to personal
animus or occasioned by a bad performance from the cinema orchestra, for the / Cinemato-
graph explicitly praises the orchestra’s rendition during the Frankfurt premiere. 12 Similarly,
for the critic O. T. Stein, it was Becce’s music, and not least the orchestra’s performance,
which saved the film:

If it had not been for the highly tasteful musical arrangement, done by Dr. Becce
in Berlin, well-played by a good orchestra - as was the case in the Union-Theat-
er Dresden, w hich reminded the listener of the magic of Wagnerian art and coin-
cided beautifully with the screen images - one’s interest in the film, because of
its obvious faults, would not have been sustained. Here the music becomes a
glorious helper, an artistic co-creator, just as it should be and will have to be in
the cinema. 13

Contemporary comments about the performance practice are rare. The idea must have been
for the film’s score to be available for small as well as larger orchestras, since both kinds
were for rental from the music publisher. The premiere of richard wagner took place May
31st, 1913, in the Berlin Union Theater in the Bavaria House. Most likely, a cinema orches-
tra would have been employed, but sources remain vague as far as the music was concerned:
the advertisement for the opening of this cinema palace in the in-house Union-Theater-
Zeitung does not mention Becce’s film music 14 ; a later advertisement only mentions the
conductor Fritz RieckeU a review of the opening in the Kinematograph briefly writes about
the film but does not comment on the music at all. 16 Leopold Schwarzschild, in his review of
the Frankfurt performance, points out the harmonium, but no other instruments. The Frank-
furt correspondent of the Kinematograph , on the other hand, praises the ‘wonderful orches-
tra, increased to 18 players.’ 17 In Moving Picture World of November 29th, 1913, Stephen
Bush praises the film music, but mentions only an organ: ‘The music was rendered with
great skill. An organ is much to be preferred if a man can be found who handles it as well as
the performer at the New Amsterdam.’ Does it follow that Becce’s film music was not even
used during the New- York performance? This would be typical for contemporary practices:
various obstacles created a targe gap between an ideal and actual performances, and most
fully composed scores were rarely used to accompany the films in question.

In Becce’s score, echoes and memories of Wagner’s original music accumulate
in direct proportion to the master’s intellectual and musical development, until he can cele-

222 Ennio Simeon

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Excerpt from Giuseppe Becce's score for RICHARD WAGNER (1913)

brate his first public success. Only with great difficulty did Becce accept the restrictions
regarding the use of Wagner’s original music. The published score points to this sacrifice a
number of times: ‘It would be more appropriate here to play the first 64 bars of the overtures
of the F liege nde Hollander ’ (when Wagner first conceives of the idea for this opera during a
sea voyage from Riga to London); on ‘It would be more effective here to play one part of the
last act of the opera Rienzi , i.e, from the words “Throw fire into...” until the sign ... (when
Rienzi is finally being performed)/ These comments resemble the ‘music scenarios’ as they
were commonly prepared for performances of silent films, rather than the instructions given
for the rather more infrequent, specially commissioned film music. The fact that Becce
prescribes already extant musical pieces, instead of composing original scores, is a further
paradox of this first German film score: it was highly unusual to include repertory pieces in
commissioned work. Instead, it was the custom to use these as stand-ins only for those film
projects which, for financial reasons, could not afford original scores.

Becce’s new compositions for rjchard wagner are mostly unpretentious and
project very little of the filmic pertinence which famously characterized his later Kinothek.
And yet, they manage to fulfil functional tasks for a variety of film situations, even if these
solutions appear naive: he introduces ‘bridges’ between compilation pieces from other com-
posers, has segments suffused with atmospheric music, and writes rhythmically stirring
parts. When composing ‘a la maniere de Wagner’ Becce had to take into account possible
infringements of copyright law. Still, a few very short original citations appear, as well as
free adaptations of Wagner themes. Mostly, the musical accompaniment of the film is a
mixture of general chromatic exercises and lyrical melody, testifying to the Italian compos-
er’s romantic bent. For Wagner’s film death, Becce made a concession to compilation prac-
tice by indicating the funeral march from Beethoven’s Third Symphony.

In terms of film dramaturgy, the score for richard wagner illustrates the hesi-
tancy around the idea of incidental music as film accompaniment, then a practice still very
much in its beginnings. In the teens and twenties, Giuseppe Becce made an enormous crea-
tive contribution to the development of a truly cinematographic musical language, and,
therefore, to the creation of autonomous film music dramaturgy: music which is conceived
as accompaniment, adapted formally as well as thematically to the context of the filmic
narrative. The cinematically congenial spirit of Becce’s music developed gradually, closely
correlated with his ‘routine’ work as ‘Illustrator’ in cinemas on the one hand, and his work

223

Giuseppe Becce and RICHARD WAGNER

as composer of atmospheric pieces and, finally, original music on the other. It is only in the
twenties that Becce’s importance came to be recognized. And yet, even the first commis-
sioned piece already contained the whole spectrum of film musical activities.

Perhaps one can indeed reproach the film for a degree of arrogance, and Rich-
ard wagner has been justifiably categorized as one of the many films exploiting the fash-
ion for authors’ films . 18 For film history, however, the film is an extraordinary case, worth a
closer look, not just as the starting point of German film music, but as a intriguing episode
in its own right. ,<J

RICHARD WAGNER ( 1913 )

224 Ennio Simeon

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Early German Film:

The Stylistics in Comparative Context

Barry Salt !

Far more American films than German films were shown in Germany in 1912, as can be
seen on page 10 of Emilie Altenloh’s Zur Soziologie des Kino? This was not the case in
France in the same year, for instance, though that was about to change. So why did German
audiences in 1912 watch more American films than German films, and indeed more than
those from any other European country? Of course, there were more American films avail-
able. but I think that there were other reasons as well. I think American films were already
more attractive to audiences, even before World War I, There were certainly some marked
differences between American films and European films, as can be shown objectively by a
stylistic analysis of the kind 1 introduced long ago. 3

The Method and the Sample

The correct basis for the formal analysis of any art work, including films, is to use the
analytical terms that the makers used in creating them. For films, this starts with the compo-
nents of the script, with scenes forming the basic unit, and then extends through the varia-
bles about which decisions have to be made during filming, such as camera placement, type
of staging within the shot, control of the nature of the actor’s performances, and then on to
the lengths of shots and the use of intertitles in the finished film.

Although I have seen scores of German films made before 1917, only nine mul-
ti-reel films were immediately available for close analysis. This is a rather small sample, but
the indications from these samples accord with my subjective memories of a much larger
number of films of all lengths.

Shot Length

This is the most obvious stylistic variable, and I am not the first to investigate it. One of my
predecessors is Herbert Birett, and he gives a list of even earlier investigations. 4 The first
person to look into this matter was the Reverend Dr. Stockton in 1912, whose investigations
are reported in an article on page 542 of The Moving Picture World of August 10, 1912,
which has been republished in George Pratt’s Spellbound in Darkness? The figures Dr.
Stockton gives are for the number of shots, intertitles and inserts in a series of one-reel
films. Since most of the films on his list are now lost, and their exact lengths unknown. It is
impossible to derive exact figures for their Average Shot Lengths (ASL). However, I myself
have gathered a number of figures for this period, and typical examples from 1913 are 81
shots in 1737 feet in the French Gaumont film panther’s prey, while the American

225 The Stylistics in Comparative Context

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Thanhouser Company’s just a shabby dolt, includes 60 shots in 871 feet. But in the same
year D.W. Griffith’s the coming of angelo has 1 16 shots in 967 feet. These figures, and a
number of others like them, show clearly that the move towards faster cutting was led from
the United States, and within the American film industry it was undoubtedly led by D.W.
Griffith from 1908 onwards.

As far as long feature films are concerned, the state of things for the products of
the major industries are indicated by the samples below showing the various ASLs,

TITLE

DIRECTOR

YEAR

ASL

DANISH FILMS

Fire Djaevle, De

Dinesen, R. & Lind, A

1911

21.0

Ekspeditricen

Blom, August

1911

43.0

Dodspringet til Hest fra Cirkuskuplen Schnedler-Sorensen, E.

1912

17.0

Mystike Fremmende, Den

Holger-Madsen

1914

17.0

Hemmelighedsfulde X, Det

Christensen, Benjamin

1914

12.0

Fremmende, Den

Gluckstadt, Vilhelm

1914

16.0

Ekspressens Mysterium

Davidsen, Hjalmar

1914

21.0

Verdens Undergang

Blom, August

1916

13.0

Klovnen

Sandberg, Anders W,

1917

18.0

FRENCH FILMS

Zigomar - Peau de Anguille

Jasset, Victorin

1913

13.0

1793

Capellani, Albert

1914

12.5

Alsace

Pouctal, Henri

1916

18.5

Barberousse

Gance, Abel

1916

13.5

GERMAN FILMS

Zweimal gelebt

Mack, Max

1912

27.0

Sumpfblume, die

Larsen, Viggo

1913

27.5

Schwarze Kugel, die

Hofer, Franz

1913

16.0

Geheimnis von Chateau Richmond

Zeyn, Willy

1913

26.5

Damonit

1914

19.4

Und das Licht erlosch

Bernhardt, Fritz

1914

25.0

Kinder des Majors, die

1914

23.5

Tirol in Waffen

Froelich, Carl

1914

27.8

Stolz der Firma, Der

Wilhelm, Carl

1914

14.0

Schuhpalast Pinkus

Lubitsch, Ernst

1916

13.0

Wenn Vier dasselbe tun

Lubitsch, Ernst

1917

8.5

ITALIAN FILMS

Pellegrino, 11

Caserini, Mario

1912

27,5

226

Barry Salt

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Ma Tamor mio non muore

Caserini, Mario

1913

67.0

Tragedia alia corte di Spagna

Negroni, Baldassare

1914

22,0

Tigre Reale

Pastrone, Giovanni

1916

13.0

Fuoco, 11

Pastrone, Giovanni

1916

18.0

SWEDISH FILMS

Tragardmastaren

Sjostrom, Victor

1912

24.0

Havsgamar

Sjostrom, Victor

1915

14.0

Karleken Segrar

Klercker, Georg af

1916

18.0

Ministerpresidenten

Klercker, Georg af

1916

17.0

Minnenans Band

Klercker, Georg af

1916

14.0

Revelj

Klercker, Georg af

1917

11.5

Thomas Graals basta Film

Stiller, Mauritz

1917

9.0

Vingama

Stiller, Mauritz

1917

13.0

For hjem och hard

Klercker, Georg af

1917

11.0

Forstadsprasten

Klercker, Georg af

1917

15.0

Mysteriet Natten till den 25e

Klercker, Georg af

1917

13.0

I Moerkrets Bojor

Klercker, Georg af

1917

13.0

Allt hamnar sig

Tallroth, Konrad

1917

13.0

Tdsen fra Stormy rtorpet

Sjostrom, Victor

1917

6.0

Vem skot?

Tallroth, Konrad

1917

14.0

AMERICAN FILMS

Traffic In Souls

Tucker, George L.

1913

7.0

Italian, The

Barker, Reginald

1914

7.5

Florida Enchantment, A

Drew, Sidney

1914

8.0

Wishing Ring, The

Tourneur, Maurice

1914

11.5

Avenging Conscience, The

Griffith, D.W.

1914

7.5

Spoilers, The

Campbell, Colin

1914

13.0

Squaw Man, The

DeMille, C.B.Apfel, 0.

1914

11.5

What’s-His-Name

DeMille, Cecil B.

1914

24.0

Italian, The

Barker, Reginald

1915

1 0.0

Cheat, The

De Mille, Cecil B.

1915

12.5

Martyrs of the Alamo

Cabanne, W.C.

1915

6.0

Hypocrites

Weber, Lois

1915

16.5

Birth of a Nation

Griffith, D,W,

1915

7.0

Madame Butterfly

Olcott, Sidney

1915

16.0

David Hamm

Dwan, Allan

1915

20.0

Royal Family, The

Frohman, Charles

1915

7.2

Carmen

DeMille, Cecil B.

1915

11.5

Playing Dead

Drew, Sidney

1915

9.0

227 The Stylistics in Comparative Context

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Young Romance

Melford, George

1915

15.0

Coward, The

Barker, Reginald

1915

11.0

Ghosts

Nicholls, G.

1915

12.0

Crisis, The

Campbell, Colin

1916

8.5

Argonauts of California, The

Kabierske, Henry

1916

6.9

Child of the Streets, A

Ingraham, Lloyd

1916

7.5

Vie de Boheme, La

Capellani, A.

1916

8.5

Happiness

Barker, Reginald

1916

5.8

Going Straight

Franklin, C. & S.

1916

7.5

Poor Little Peppina

Olcott, Sidney

1916

9.6

Vagabond, The

Chaplin, Charles

1916

14.0

Apple Tree Girl, The

Cropland, Alan

1917

4.0

Girl without a Soul, The

Collins, John H.

1917

5.3

Romance of the Redwoods

De Mille, Cecil B.

1917

10.0

Iced Bullet, The

Barker, Reginald

1917

6.4

Narrow Trail, The

Hillyer, Lambert

1917

4.5

Until They Get Me

Borzage, Frank

1917

6.8

Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm

Neilan, Marshall

1917

5.0

Poor Little Rich Girl

Tourneur, Maurice

1917

10.0

Whip, The

Tourneur, Maurice

1917

6.0

Modem Musketeer, A

Dwan, Allan

1917

4.0

You might ask what is the point of all these figures. Well, the cutting rate (or ASL) is gener-
ally fairly closely connected with the apparent speed of the film narrative. This happens in
various ways. The most obvious of these is that the more scenes there are within a given
length, the more cuts there will be from one scene to the next, and hence the shorter the
ASL. And in general, the faster the plot advances, the more scenes there will be. A greater
number of scenes is also connected with the use of cross-cutting technique between parallel
actions. This w r as particularly developed by D.W. Griffith in the United States, though he
did not invent it in the first place. By 1913a number of other American film-makers were
starting to take up this idea, and it is a feature of traffic in souls, the 90-minute American
feature film tabulated above. However, amongst more than 2000 European films made be-
fore 1914, none use fully developed cross-cutting in the Griffith manner, and only a dozen
or so use it in order to show both sides of a telephone conversation, or action inside and
outside a house.

Despite the fact that there are some German films from this period, particularly
thrillers, which contain a situation that could have been developed into a cross-cut race to
the rescue, the only German example I have seen that even begins to use the device is Urban
Gad’s die verraterin (1912), where there are a couple of cuts between the hero hurrying
to save the heroine from execution, and the execution itself. But this kind of embryonic

228 Barry Sail

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cross-cutting dates back to 1907, before Griffith fully developed the notion.

By 1914 it was widely held in the American film industry that cross-cutting was
most generally useful because it made possible the elimination of uninteresting parts of the
action that play no part in advancing the drama, even if no suspense was involved. The
introduction of cross-cutting into a film requires special thought at the script stage, and this
of course requires special training of the writers, which was far from being the norm in
Europe, and especially in Germany.

The other technique that introduces more cuts into a given length of film is the
use of cutting within a scene, and in particular cutting in to a closer shot of the actors, and
then back again. Like all noticeable cuts, I believe this has some sort of dynamic psycholog-
ical effect, and in any case the introduction of closer shots in themselves can act to produce
intensification of the dramatic situation. Although there was not vastly more cutting to closer
shots in American than in European film up to 1914, when such cuts were used in American
films, they tended to be from a general shot of the scene that was already closer to the actors
than its European equivalent, and the close shot itself was likely to be closer, too. But during
the war years there certainly was more scene dissection in American films than European
films, and this is brought out in the statistics for scale or closeness of shot given later in this
article.

A German film that illustrates the effect of lack of cutting, combined with very
poor staging of the action, is zwetmal gelebt (1912). The plot of this film revolves around
a doctor who falls in love with a seriously ill woman whom he is treating in hospital. After
she apparently dies in hospital, he pays a last visit to see her body in an open coffin lying in
a church before burial, with no one else present. He discovers that she is not actually dead,
and picks her up and carries her to his car outside the church. Every foot of his travel during
this process is shown in its complete detail in three shots, one inside the church, the next
showing him taking her out the door, and the third taken from the street showing him carry-
ing her about 20 metres from the side of the church out to his car and dragging her passive
form into it. All this has taken the better part of a minute, and then we are taken all the way
back through the same series of shots as the doctor goes back to the church to get his top hat,
which he left behind, and to put the lid on the coffin. Now this is an extreme case, but nearly
all other German films of the period have at least a little of this kind of failure to think out
how the simple progress of the action could be easily speeded up with better selection of
shots, and more cuts between them. This is a great pity, because a very interesting situation
is now set up in this film, but the director fails completely to exploit it. The doctor takes the
revived woman away to another country and lives with her there, but the woman’s little
daughter turns up in the same town, and the woman sees her. The inevitable scene in which
the woman spies on her daughter without daring to approach her is also staged in an surpris-
ingly crude way, with the woman lurking behind a tree at one side of the scene, in such a way
that she would be clearly visible to anyone glancing her way. tt is done like a bad nineteenth
century melodrama on the stage.

229 The Stylistics in Comparative Context

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In European cinema, I have found no films with an ASL shorter than 1 1 seconds
before 1 917, by which date a few clever and perceptive directors had finally begun to under-
stand the new American methods of film construction. In Sweden, Victor Sjostrom had all
the devices of continuity cinema working properly in tosen fra stormyrtorpet (1917),
with an ASL of 6 seconds. (His other films of this time, in which he acted as well as di-
rected, unlike the one just mentioned, are slightly more retarded stylistically.) Mauritz Still-
er also went some of the way down the same path in thomas graals bast a film (ASL = 9
seconds), but this was not typical for the Nordic region, as figures for films made by Georg
af Klerker and others show. The long scenes and very slow cutting in German films is clear-
ly indicated in the figures given above. Ernst Lubitsch seems to have been the first to get a
grip on American methods, as is indicated by the ASL for wenn vier dasselbe tun (1917)
of 8.5 seconds, while his die puppe of 1919 has an ASL of 5.5 seconds, not to mention the
fact that he was already using a lot of reverse-angle shots by this date. His carmen of 1918
has 14% of such cuts, and die puppe includes 19% reverse-angle cuts. On the other hand,
there are many American films with an ASL shorter than 10 seconds before 1915.

Scale or Closeness of Shot

Another filmic variable about which conscious decisions have to be made when a film is
being shot is Scale (or Closeness) of Shot, and even before 1919 distinctions were already
being drawn by American film-makers between the categories of ‘Bust’ or Close Up, Amer-
ican Foreground, French Foreground, Long Shot, and Distance Shot. Although there was
already a small amount of disagreement about precisely what shot scale corresponded to
each of these descriptive terms, it is sufficient for the purposes of analysis to define careful-
ly what one means by each category, and then stick to it. I will in fact use categories of Scale
of Shot more like those used in the forties and later, as follows: Big Close Up (BCU) shows
head only. Close Up (CU) shows head and shoulders. Medium Close Up (MCU) includes
body from the waist up. Medium Shot (MS) includes from just below the hip to above the
head of upright actors, Medium Long Shot (MLS) shows the body from the knee upwards.
Long Shot (LS) show's at least the full height of the body, and Very Long Shot (VLS) shows
the actor small in the frame. It must be appreciated that the closer categories of shot are
understood to allow only a fairly small amount of space above the actor’s head, so that the
kind of situation where just the head and shoulders of a distant actor are sticking up into the
bottom of the frame with vast amounts of space above him would not be classed as a Close
Up. Although all the analyses in this article are done with the above categories, it might be
preferable for future work to subdivide the category of Long Shot into Full Shot, which just
shows the full height of the actor, and Long Shot showing the actor so distant that the frame
height is two or three times the actor height, and still reserving Very Long Shot for those
shots in which the actors are very small in the frame.

Since there is very little camera movement in the films made in this period, and
since the actors also tend to stay mostly at the same distance from the camera in them, it is

230 Barry Salt

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not difficult to assign the shots to the appropriate category. However, if a shot does include
extensive actor movement towards, or away from, the camera, it is always possible to carry
out an averaging process for actor closeness within the length of the shot to any desired
degree of accuracy, if one takes enough time and care over it. Also, it should be noted that
since vve are considering films with 200 or more shots in them, there is a tendency for
occasional errors in the assignments of shots to their correct category to cancel out.

The exact scales of shot that lie at the centre of the categories I have been using
up to now in my work are not entirely satisfactory for films made up to the end of World
War I, because two of the standardized distances that were fairly strictly used during this
period both lie within one of my categories of Scale of Shot. The usual working distance for
European films up to World War I was the four metre line, and if actors play at this distance
from the camera they are cut off at the shins when photographed with a standard 50 mm
lens, so giving what was called ‘the French foreground’ in the USA, On the other hand, the
usual shooting distance in America was the ‘nine foot line,’ with the actors working right up
to a line laid on the floor at that distance from the camera. Under these conditions this cut
the actors off just below the hips when they were framed with their heads a reasonable
distance from the top of the frame. This was called the ‘American foreground,’ Although the
‘American foreground’ corresponds with the centre of the later standard category, the Medi-
um Shot, that I use, the ‘French foreground’ falls towards the point where Medium Shot
changes into Full Shot. It would be possible to introduce a new category for this, but for
consistency with my earlier work, I have included French foreground shots under Medium
Shot in these new figures. In any case, they are closer to being a Medium shot (as it is
nowadays understood) than to being a Full Shot, let alone a Long Shot.

The Technique

Although in the first place I record the total number of Close Ups, etc. in a film, for the
purpose of the comparison between one particular film and other films which will include
different numbers of shots in total, it is preferable to multiply the number of shots in each
category by 500 divided by the total number of shots in the film, so that one then has the
number of each type of shot per 500 shots. This ‘standardization’ or ‘normalization’ not
only enables one to easily compare one film with another, but also gives a direct measure of
the relative probability of a director choosing any particular closeness of shot.

A broad summary of the results for the purposes of comparison can be given by quoting the
percentages of shots closer than Medium Long Shot for the groups of American and German
films.

ZWEIMAL GELEBT

(1912)

DIE SUMPFBLUME

(1913)

DIE SCHWARZE KUGEL

(1913)

28%

DAS GEHEIMNIS VON CHATEAU RICHMOND

(1913)

10%

DAMONIT

(1914)

11%

231 the stylistics in comparative context

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DIE KINDER DES MAJORS

( 1914 )

TIROL IN WAFFEN

( 1914 )

UND DAS LICHT ERLOSCH

( 1914 )

DIE SUHNE

( 1917 )

TRAFFIC IN SOULS

( 1913 )

IVANHOE

( 1913 )

9 %

what’s-his-name

( 1914 )

13%

THE SPOILERS

( 1914 )

16 %

THE AVENGING CONSCIENCE

( 1914 )

30 %

; n a f\< /iru^i j:^. j ah t-*r\+ ji

A ' i

3 ; :

Copyrighted image

ru.i.

Copyrighted image

232 Barry Sait

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The most striking thing about these results is the high proportion of close shots in Franz
Hofer’s die schwarze kugel. This reaches a Griffith-like level. All the BCUs and CUs in
this film are insert shots of objects, more or less relevant to the action. Taking this together
with other features of this film, it looks to me as though Hofer had noticed some features of
contemporary American film-making, without completely realizing their significance. The
situations in which they are used would not bring forth such inserts in American films of this
period or later, for they do not add extra clarity or force to what can already be clearly seen
in the preceding shots in the film. The same is true of Hofer’s use of masked Point of View
shots (see below). Unfortunately, I have not been able to analyse any German films from
1915 and 1916 in detail, but die suhne, made in 1917, though not released until the follow-
ing year, gives an indication of what is visible in other films I have seen, but not listed here.
This is that there seems to have been very little progressive stylistic development in German
films during the war years.

Reverse Angle Shots

As in the rest of Europe, it was not until after the war that German film-makers took the use
of the fully developed technique of reverse-angle cutting which had begun to appear in
American films from 1911. The one exception to this was the use of cuts to the opposite
angle to show the audience watching a stage show, as well as the show itself seen in Long
Shot from the audience’s direction and point of view. It seems that many film-makers all
over the world had difficulty generalizing from this situation to the general one. In fact, even
in theatrical scenes many European film-makers were unable to get their heads around this
idea, even though they must have seen it in other people’s films. For instance, Franz Hofer
in die schwarze kugel repeatedly tries to include the spectators of the stage show' central
to his plot in the foreground of the same shot as what they are watching. Unfortunately, his
cameraman does not have sufficient depth of field to cover the audience, and either they or
the show are badly out of focus in successive shots. This is an extreme case of the technical
ineptitude generally visible to some extent in all German films of the period.

Point of View Shots

The only true examples of Point of View (POV) shots in German films made before 1918 are
the masked variety, where the scene looked at is shown inside a vignette shaped to represent
the aperture of whatever is being looked through by the character in the film - telescope,
keyhole, or whatever, e.g. die sumpfblume and der schirm mit dem schwan (1916).

The true Point of View shot, which shows what a character in the film is looking
at without any mask, and from a camera position along his line of sight, began to appear in
some quantities in American films from 1912. There are one or two examples of what might
appear to be POV shots in German films made before 1918, such as die suffragette
(1913), but closer inspection shows that the scene that the characters are looking at is not
actually taken in the direction they are looking, but from a quite different direction. Indeed,

233 The Stylistics in Comparative Context

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such was the mental difficulty that German film-makers seem to have had with the concept
of the true POV shot that a shot of an important object that one character is looking at in
Joseph Delmont’s auf einsamer insel is shown inside a circular mask, even though neither
he nor anyone else in the scene is using a telescope.

Staging within the Shot

Given the length of the takes in German films, there is inevitably a fair amount of staging
with the actors moving between positions up near the 4 metre line and deeper in the set, and
for the same reason the actors tend to face towards the ‘front’ in a fairly obvious way. It was
possible to stage scenes in one long take and avoid direct frontality, as most Danish Film
dramas of the period show, and it was possible to go beyond this, as in Sjostrom’s ingeborg
holm (1913), and use great subtlety in the placing of the actors with respect to each other,
but one does not find anything like that in German films of the same date.

There is also a certain amount of use of deep sets including a space behind visi-
ble through a doorway or arch, in which parts of the action can take place. This is something
that appears occasionally in European films made in the teens, but more rarely in American
films, where action moves to adjoining spaces and back with a cut and a change of camera
position.

Lighting

The lighting in German films of the period before 1 91 8 is in general like that in other Euro-
pean films of the period, though the amount of lighting applied from arc floodlights on floor
stands to the front and sides of the sets is a little heavier than the European average. In this
respect, it approaches the lighting in French Gaumont films, which used an exceptionally
large number of arc floodlights. Combining this with the sort of staging used, T have been
struck by the way that many German films, such as das geheimnis von chateau Rich-
mond, do indeed look like Gaumont films. Apart from the fact that French films were prob-
ably the principal models for German films, the somewhat lower light levels of the sunlight
through the studio roofs at Berlin’s more northerly latitude may have had something to do
with this. As in the rest of Europe, the old style glass studios continued to be used until after
the war, whereas the Americans moved over to shooting solely with artificial light in dark
studios during the war. Similarly, there is no backlighting of the figures with spotlights in
studio scenes. However, none of the German films made before 1917 that I have seen have
the subtlety of the lighting of the best Gaumont films, impressive by the precision with
which the light is applied to the figures and particular areas of the scene. Indeed, the lighting
can be downright crude, as in the attempts at low-key lighting in und das light erlosch
and homunculus. Things began to change a little after the war, a harbinger being the light-
ing in die liebe der maria bonde (1918), which does interesting things with available
light in an artist’s studio.

234 Barry Salt

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A staging including a ‘scene behind’ in und das light rrlOsch (1914)

Scene with low key lighting from available light filmed in a real artist’s studio in

DIE L1EBE DER MARIA BONDE (1918)

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235

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Gaumont style lighting in DAS GEHE1MNIS VON CHATEAU RICHMOND (1913). The foreground figure
is almost up to the nine foot line, or 'American foreground’

Script Construction

The basic problem with Gentian films stems from their poor scripting, and this can be illus-
trated in its most extreme form by die sumpfblume (1913), where it takes the film fully ten
minutes for the hero to get to know the heroine and the story of the film to start at all, and
another seven minutes to get the other components of the plot into place, so that something
interesting can happen at last! In more action-oriented films, there are chases that have no
goal, and indeed even return to the point of origin, via utterly irrelevant pieces of action, as
in die schwarze kugel. Here much is made of the mechanism of a secret entrance through
a staircase to a cellar, but this reputed cellar plays no part in the plot, and we never even see
it. Even the best German films from before the war, which are undoubtedly the Asta Nielsen
films directed by Urban Gad, are not always free from these kinds of defects.

Conclusion

In Germany, as elsewhere, audiences preferred American films when they were put before
them. And this was because American films were in general more exciting, gripping, and
entertaining, to the reasons indicated above,

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Self-Referentiality in Early German Cinema

Sabine Hake

The Wilhelmine cinema, simply because so little is known about it, is frequently described
as technically inferior and formally undeveloped. 1 Siegfried Kracauer’s dictum that the
cinema before World War I must be seen as ‘prehistory, an archaic period insignificant in
itself' 2 has done much to contribute to this impression. It is the purpose of this essay to
challenge such perceptions and draw attention to one particular trait of this ‘other" early
German cinema, its disposition toward a self-referentiality that draws attention to the cine-
ma and foregrounds its stylistic means and emotional effects. The re-presentations of cine-
ma, for instance in the form of stories about filmmaking and through images of images,
imitate the aesthetics of the store-front window. Their primary purpose is to advertise the
many goods this new mass entertainment has to offer. While the films create critical dis-
tance through the scenarios of duplication and display, they skilfully apply the rules of
advertising, namely to make the product look appealing and to seduce prospective buyers
into their realm of new sensations and new pleasures.’

The interest in self-mirroring and self-promotion belongs to a cinema that, to
evoke Tom Gunning’s distinction between the classical voyeurist cinema and an earlier
‘cinema of attractions,’ is spectacular, sensationalist, and unabashedly self-involved. 1 This
cinema prefers the aesthetics of presentation and flaunts its skills with little regard for nar-
rative or spatial continuity. 5 Tableau-like frame compositions, long takes, and frontal play
with direct glances at the cinema are its main characteristics. With the early cinema thus
likened to a kind of institutional exhibitionism, the preference for theatrical mise-en- scene
in German films of the early teens appears in a new light. It becomes associated with a
discourse on the apparatus that foregrounds the cinema’s technological and institutional
aspects. This self- referential quality does not necessarily imply a critique of dominant prac-
tices in the way that the modernist novel rejects the underlying assumptions of realism or
the epic theatre of Brecht introduces the alienation effect to provoke critical thinking. In the
context of cinema culture and consumerism, these instances of self-referentiality serve
largely affirmative functions; they belong to a new industry promoting its products. The
hallucinations of cinema, whether in the form of narrative structures or special effects, rep-
resent a form of advertisement, a showcase for technical accomplishments as well as the
technological imagination. Their impact can be studied in a number of films that are at once
playful and didactic, exploratory and prescriptive qualities typical of any cinema in transi
tion. As ‘transitional objects,’ these films show audiences how to appreciate the cinema and
its increasingly sophisticated products, how to deal with feelings of astonishment and disbe-

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lief, and how to gain satisfaction from the playful awareness of the apparatus and the simul-
taneous denial of its presence. Such emphasis on questions of spectatorship seems at once
essential and excessive: a sign of instability and strength. The resultant circulat ion of means
and meanings gives rise to what Thomas Elsaesser describes as one of the unique qualities
of early German cinema, namely ‘ its mastery over the cinematic process and narrativation.’ 6
It is with similar implications that I propose to discuss the narrative and discursive referenc-
es to the cinematic apparatus: as a self-presentation of the cinema and domestication of its
forces, that is: as another act of mastery indeed.

The cinema’s desire to draw r attention to its possibilities, to show its nicks and
display its achievements, finds expression in visual and narrative terms. The desire for du-
plication stands behind the self-referential use of special effects as well as the many stories
about filmmaking and film professionals. The fascination with cinema as a production is
most apparent in films that are set in the world of film and that feature film stars or earner
amen in the leading roles. In these examples of diegetic self-referentiality, the process of
filmmaking is invariably portrayed as a challenge and an adventure. Funny and grotesque
situations abound, art infringes upon life, and life models itself on art, but in the end, even
the greatest organizational problems are resolved through the protagonists’ sheer ingenuity,
and the multiple layers of deception only affirm the power of the cinematic apparatus. The
resourcefulness of the characters becomes a measure of the resourcefulness of cinema.

Playing with these implications, der stellungslose photograph (’The Un-
employed Photographer’), a Max Mack Film from 1912, presents the typical day in the life
of a cameraman as a series of comic adventures. His professional identity is developed
through two central elements, women and technology. On his way to a job interview, the
young man makes the acquaintance of an attractive woman on the bus. Introducing himself
as the member of a young and still disreputable profession, he uses to his advantage the
secret wishes of women everywhere. ‘I want to be filmed,’ confesses the woman and, in so
doing, offers herself to the objectifying gaze of the camera. Her wish gives rise to a paradig-
matic configuration of cinema, but it also betrays a legitimate need for self-representation.
The woman, who has entered the public sphere, is confident enough to express her desires
and to ignore suggestions of impropriety. This potentially liberating moment, however, is
contained within a narrative structure that organizes access to the cinematic apparatus along
the lines of gender and places the man as the bearer and the woman as the object of the
look. 7 Moreover, the request is made in an erotically charged atmosphere which defines, in
a fundamental way, the relationship between femininity and technology as one of exclusion
and fetishization.

The emphasis on film production as a narrative device carries over into the next
scene, the job interview, which offers insight into the difficulties of filmmaking. Borrowing
from slapstick comedy, Mack plays extensively with the analogies between man and ma
chine. The cameraman’s struggle with the tripod exploits a standard comic motif, the ani-
mation of the inanimate world, in order to draw attention to the skills required by those

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working in the film industry. Because of its delicate mechanisms and lack of stability, the
tripod must be handled with care, just as the cinema needs professionals to control its possi-
bilities. The analogies between the equipment and the entire industry are extended to the
human participants when the cameraman’s excursions into the streets prove that crowd con-
trol must take place not only on the screen but on location as well. The unruly behaviour of
the passers-by and their curious glances toward the camera confirm the need for the control-
led environment of the film studio. Given these adverse conditions, and the implicit sugges-
tion that only artificiality can produce an illusion of reality, it is not surprising that the
encounter with the real world ends with the cameraman’s involuntary jump into the water.
Behind the comic effects stands a more serious interest in self-promotion that becomes
evident in the conscious appeal to the spectator’s expectations, including their need for
perfect illusionism, and to standards of quality that can only be achieved through the profes-
sionalization and institutionalization of cinema. What is referred to as the ‘difficulties of the
profession’ thus draws attention to the achievement that this particular film represents. Ob-
viously, Mack and his collaborators have followed all the necessary steps in the making of a
film; obviously, they have solved all problems with creativity and expertise. It is in this spirit
of technical and creative accomplishment that the travelling shot at the end, which is almost
experimental in the use of camera movement, gives a preview of attractions still to come.
Whereas the narrative of the unemployed photographer is loosely structured around
the man behind the (movie)camera, die filmprimadonna (‘The Film Primadonna,’19l3)
introduces a set of competing positions and perspectives. The Urban Gad film with Asta
Nielsen in the title role shows a film star who leaves her place in front of the camera and
takes control of the process of image production. In the first reel - the others are unfortu-
nately lost - the film’s self-referential qualities manifest themselves on two levels, through
the protagonists and through extradiegetic references. The story of a production establishes
the dramatic constellations in which the famous Ruth Breton is called upon to prove her
screen appeal and her leadership skills. Supervising the making of her screen persona, she
exhibits the confidence of someone in complete control; the provocative gesture of smoking
in public is a measure of her appropriation of male privilege. More important still, the ‘film
primadonna’ is well aware of the pleasures to be gained once the images of women are no
longer exclusively in the hands of men. The film’s spectators are invited to watch as she
negotiates with the director, promotes an aspiring screenwriter, examines the first contact
print, and suggests better camera angles to her cameraman. These different settings show
the woman at ease with the technical side of cinema. Whether in the studio, the printing lab,
or the producer’s office, every encounter underscores her expertise. To prove her independ-
ence, the star in the film repeatedly takes advantage of the commingling of screen persona
and public persona, for instance when she uses sexual allure to consolidate her position in a
predominantly male world.

This kind of behavior has an equivalent in ‘real life/ As an example of art imitat-
ing life, the casting of Asta Nielsen superimposes a web of extradiegetic references onto a

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ista Nielsen
nd Urban Gad
n the set
1913)

rare example of female empowerment. The circular construction of the star playing herself
promotes an appreciation of cinema that requires familiarity with the dream factory and its
self- fabricated myths, Nielsen was one of the first real stars of the German cinema, adored
by the masses and the intellectuals alike; the many essays and articles devoted to the ‘im-
mortal Asta’ bear witness to an almost religious cult that developed around her screen perso-
na. She participated actively in all aspects of film production, supported by her husband and
collaborator, the Danish director Urban Gad. Both aspects of the Nielsen phenomenon, her
tremendous popularity and her authorial control, enter into the Ruth Breton character and
instill a sense of complicity in the audience that goes beyond self-indulgent celebrations of
cinema. By following the stages in a production and by privileging the woman’s perspec-
tive, the film draws attention to the circumstances under which sexual difference comes to
structure the cinematic gaze. At the same time, the figure of the glamorous star affirms the
association of woman and cinema from the side of production - an approach that is both
enlightening and mystifying, given her double role as a character and a celebrity. The vacil-
lation between critical analysis and objectification bears witness to the very contradictions
through which the cinema introduces itself as an alternative to bourgeois culture and its
different notions of authorship and production, while at the same time aligning itself with
consumer culture and its exhibitionist practices.

The most astonishing case of a cinema reflecting upon itself can be found in wie
sich das kino racht (‘How the Cinema Takes Revenge,’ 1912). Made by Gustav Traut-
schold for Eiko Film, the film takes aim at the cinema reformers and their fanatic campaigns
against trash and smut. Its explicit purpose is to expose the hypocrisy behind the reformist
arguments and, through a less obvious, but equally significant scheme, to bestow on the
cinema an aura of moral rectitude. The discourse about cinema is doubly present, in the

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narrative and as a film-inside-the-film; the spectators experience the conditions of produc-
tion as well as the final product. Opening with a session of the ‘Association for the Fight
Against Cinematography,’ the film takes its cues directly from reality, both in the cast of
characters and the references to reformist discourse. When the main protagonist. Professor
Moralski, speaks of ‘muddy streams of immorality,’ the phrase might very well be taken
from one of the countless pamphlets against the ‘movie plague’ published during the early
teens. Faced with such arguments, the producers in the film make it their foremost mission
to expose the enemies of cinema to public ridicule. On the surface concerned with cultural
legitimation, their project has clear economic motives. The expansionist ambitions of early
cinema, after all, cannot be threatened by questions of morality. Thus ‘Filmfabrikant Flim-
mer’ (whose name already betrays the industrial nature of his business) hires an attractive
young actress to seduce Moralski. She follows the professor to a ‘Conference for the Fight
Against Cinematography’ at a seaside resort appropriately called Dummstadt (Stupidtown).
A chance encounter on the beach turns into a lively conversation, with two cameramen
documenting the scene from a distance. They record on film how the professor clandestine-
ly takes off his wedding ring and joins the attractive stranger for a stroll. Later, the privacy
of a wicker beach chair allows for more intimate caresses and inspires a convincing per-
formance for the camera that completes the professor’s moral downfall. The use of a binoc-
ular mask underscores the voyeuristic perspective which implicates the cinema, as well as
its enemies, in the perverse pleasures of looking without being seen.

The close link between rigid morality and barely concealed lechery becomes
glaringly obvious when Professor Moralski returns to his desk at home to write yet another
speech against the cinema. His recollections of the encounter are still too vivid, and his
desires too strong, to remain without adequate representation. They materialize in the ghost-
like female figure which, through stop motion, appears in the door frame. The moment he
tries to embrace the uncanny apparition, she turns into his matronly wife. Guilt and shame
have once again triumphed as enemies of the imagination. Following the suggestion of an
alleged supporter, Moralski decides to conclude his next public lecture with the screening of
a ‘trash film,’ ‘The Paragon of Virtue at the Spa.’ Much to the shock and amusement of the
audience, the film recounts the details of his own yielding to temptation. The film-inside-
the-film shows the scenes at the beach for a second time, but now processed through the
cinematic apparatus. According to the logic of the diegesis, the repetition of the scene un-
derscores the difference between reality and representation. Through the means of framing
and editing, the staged encounter on the beach has been transformed into a drama of eroti-
cism; such is the meaning of the fiction effect. The reaction of the spectators to the film
takes a different direction. Confronted with the revealing images, they experience a reality
effect, so to speak. The shock of recognition forces the audience, including the professor’s
wife, to see the glaring discrepancies between theory and practice in the rhetoric of cinema
reform. After that, only the cinema seems to be able to provide a place where morality,
profitability, and eroticism can peacefully exist side by side. While the professor flees from

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the scene, the announcement ‘From tomorrow on daily; “The Paragon of Virtue at the Spa .”
Sensational hit. Amusing, educational! ’ celebrates the superior reality of cinematic Fiction.*
The detective film wo ist coletti? (‘Where is Coletti?’, 1913), carries further
this playful investigation of different levels of representation. The recognition of cinema as
a production begins in the credit sequence where the participants are introduced in a way
not uncommon for the early teens. Standing in front of a dark backdrop reminiscent of a
theatre curtain, director Max Mack and scenarist Franz von Schonthan discuss the film
script and then, as if in a magic trick, pull down the names of the actors (Magde Lessing,
Hans Junkermann, etc.) in large white letters. Storytelling in the cinema, the opening im-
plies, requires a close collaboration between director and scenarist and must be seen as a
construction, not a reflection of reality. The credit sequence prepares the ground for the
film’s narrative project, a demonstration of how modem mass media influences the percep-
tion of reality. Irony and travesty provide the main strategies of self-doubling. In its use of
generic conventions. Mack’s film offers an interesting variation on the detective film. The
detective no longer looks for suspects, gathers evidence, and tries to reconstruct the crime.
Instead, he becomes the focus of the investigation, initiating a frantic search and reversing
the genre’s epistemological objectives in the process. Provoked by an open letter, Coletti
decides to prove the impossibility of finding a particular person in Berlin, the city of mil-
lions. His strategy: to distribute ‘wanted’ - posters all over town, to offer a reward of 100 000
marks for information leading to his capture, and then to disappear for 48 hours. Committed
to elegance and style, Coletti goes to a portrait photographer to have his picture taken, And
obsessed wuth accuracy, he seeks the help of a quack physician to take his body measures
according to the Bertillon system. However, behind the parody of the detective genre, a
more far-reaching project takes shape. It concerns the dissemination of mass-produced im-
ages into all areas of modem life. The traditional notion of what constitutes reality is sup-
planted by a more precarious relationship between the simulated and the real that demands
constant attention from the audience. As Coletti shows in his use of photography and film,
any attempt to reconstruct a particular series of events is doomed to fail in the context of
modem mass media. A chain of endless deferrals is set into motion through one initial act of
re-presentation, here to be understood in the sense of making present that w^hich is absent.
Aware of the consequences, Coletti carries the process of simulation to its logical conclu-
sion and asks his hairdresser to act as a stand-in. The fact that the double is soon afterwards
recognized by passers-by only underscores the detective’s claim that the ‘fake’ can be more
authentic than the ‘original.’ A wild chase through the streets of Berlin follows which in-
volves a growing number of participants and several means of transportation, including a
double-decker bus and a zeppelin, and which illustrates the increasingly futile search for a
reality based on physical presence. With this recognition, the participants and eyewitnesses
return to the site of their own construction as spectators, the movie theatre, where highlights
from the chase appear in a newsreel. Amidst the audience a delighted Coletti watches the
performance of his double on the screen and enjoys the success of this little experiment.

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Shooting WO
1ST C0LETT1?

(1913)

Again, a staged event has been endowed with the qualities of the real; again, imagination
and desire have triumphed over the laws of probability. As where is coletti? sets out to
prove, both processes are the work of the cinematic apparatus and its most eager collabora-
tor, the audience.

Despite their differences, how the cinema takes revenge and where is
coletti? rely on similar strategies in foregrounding the cinema as a production. In both
films, protagonists become protagonists in a film-inside-the-film: Professor Moralski with-
out his knowledge and against his will, Coletti in an act of wilful deception and to his own
amusement. Both films comment on the conditions of spectatorship by using the movie
theatre as the setting of their most revealing moments. Time and again, the reaction shots of
spectators give an indication of the diversity of audience responses (laughter, outrage, re-
pulsion) and show the awareness of the difference between reality (i.e., the diegesis) and
representation (i.e., the film in the diegesis) as a precondition for the enjoyment of cinema.
Reflecting on their own status as public spectacle, both films tell a story and demonstrate
how this story is told through the means of cinema. This self-referential quality develops
almost naturally and with much playfulness, and it makes learning an integral part of the
viewing experience. The aim is not to shatter the cinematic illusion but rather to increase its
appeal. For it is precisely through the vacillation between critical distance and visual pleas-
ure, between knowing and not knowing, that the cinema establishes itself as a powerful
cultural and representational practice.

In the previous examples, the films-inside-the-films have a decisive effect on the
narrative. The public screening confronts the diegesis with its own effects and, in so doing,
draws attention to the politics of representation. Those in control of the new technologies
overcome all adversities and emerge victoriously in the end. By contrast, those opposing
technological progress for moral or political reasons are subjected to mockery. The positive

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attitudes toward the new media find an almost programmatic expression in zapatas bande
('Zapata’s Gang,’ 1914), another Asta Nielsen film directed by Urban Gad. 9 Announced as a
‘film joke,’ the film almost reverses the hierarchies between fiction and reality and offers a
surprisingly modem perspective on the old problem of life imitating art. A motley group
employed by the Nordland Film arrives in Italy for on-location shooting. Though the area
has been terrorized by bandits, the film team is determined to finish another 'sensational
hit.’ They dress up as wild robbers and initiate a series of dramatic reversals that jeopardize
their shooting schedule and fundamentally put into question the very definitions of role-
playing.

Extradiegetic and meladiscursive references inform visual and narrative strate-
gies from the very beginning. The company’s name recalls the Nordisk company where Gad
and Nielsen produced their greatest hits. The glamorous star of Nordland not only exudes
the same liberated eroticism associated with Nordisk’s main asset, Asta Nielsen, but is in
fact played by the actress herself. When Nielsen points to her high leather boots, the essen-
tial piece of clothing for a convincing robber, she consciously displays her slender body as
the site of an androgynous sexuality and, through this suggestive play with sexual differ-
ence, initiates a more complicated process of doubling. Its implications are spelled out as
soon as the film team begins on location shooting. On one level, the rustic setting inspires
many humorous touches. The actors’ search for privacy in their makeshift dressing rooms is
depicted in all its absurdity, a comment also on the theatre and its stiff formality. Their
theatrical gestures appear completely out of place in the serene Italian countryside and indi-
rectly confirm the higher reality associated with the film world. On another level, the simi-
larities between bandits and actors provide the basis on which the drama of mistaken iden-
tity unfolds. While the real robbers leave the area, the film actors apprehend a coach, there-
by showing off their acting skills and confirming the almost uncanny realism of screen
acting. The passengers, a countess and her pretty daughter Elena, return to the village in
horror. News of the robbers' most recent attack spread like wildfire, and the panic reaches
new heights when seven hotel guests - the film crew - are reported missing. Defenceless
against these rumours, the actors decide to play their parts rather than resist the pow er of the
imagination. These events are complicated by Elena’s growing infatuation with the hand-
some young man played by Nielsen. While the Hosenmlte (i.e., a woman playing a man’s
part) introduces the possibility of female homosexuality, its association with an act of mis-
recognition disperses any possible fears of sexual transgression; rejected, the young coun-
tess simply turns to the next ’man. 1 The flirtation with role-playing comes to an end once the
false robbers are arrested by the local carabinieri and face severe punishment for deeds they
have not committed. Only the arrival of the Scandinavian consul (as the deus ex machina)
resolves the situation, and the crew returns back home: ‘Without a film but rich in experi-
ence,’ as the intertitle notes.

The films discussed in this essay show a surprising willingness to experiment
with the cinema’s formal and narrative possibilities. As they explore the difference between

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Ernst Lubitsch

fiction and reality and as they test the powers of simulation, they prove their ability to distin-
guish between the two and make the awareness of this difference integral to the pleasures of
cinema. While generic conventions, cultural traditions, and sociosexual stereotypes define
the conditions under which this kind of self-referentiality takes place, the sheer enjoyment
of the apparatus generates enough momentum for an exploration of cinema on its own
terms. 10 The breaking of the illusionist conventions draws attention to the constructed nature
of narrative and invites the spectator’s active collaboration; this process has affirmative and
critical functions. Evidence of the need to define the parameters of production and reception
can also be found in other national cinemas; however, I suspect that the Wilhelmine cinema
had a special interest in the affirmative, if not educational, aspects of self-referentiality."
Confronted with the relentless attacks by cinema reformers and literary critics, the cinema
used the references to filmmaking in order to facilitate critical analysis, thereby almost
imitating modernist forms of self-reflexivity, and to provide the cultural legitimation that
justified its integration into middle-class culture. The high degree of self-awareness that
characterizes these films contradicts widespread notions about the early German cinema as
being primitive and not worthy of close analysis. Instead of limiting film to the aesthetics of
the theatre, the strong emphasis on mise-en-scene provides - quite literally, as the preoccu-
pation with staging and screening suggest - a framework in which self-referential qualities
continue to flourish despite the growing emphasis on narrative continuity and cinematic
illusionism. The emergence of the feature film around 1910 led to a further standardization
of filmic means; so did the controversy surrounding the film drama which thematized the
tension between spectacle and narrative in unambiguous terms. The concomitant process of
economic concentration and specialization in the film industry necessitated the creation of a
positive image of the industry and transformed the cinema into an object of pleasurable and
critical appreciation. 12 Within these configurations, the duplication of the cinematic appara-
tus made possible the re-presentation of film production and spectatorship in narrative
terms and gave rise to the cinema’s emergent discourse about itself.

245 Self-Referential ity in Early German Cinema

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Of Artists and Tourists:

‘Locating’ Holland in Two Early German
Films

Ivo Blom

In the Desmet collection of the Nederlands Filmmuseum, two remarkable German fiction
films can be found, des meeres und dek liebe wellen (1912) and auf einsamer insel
(1913). Each was shot in a well-known Dutch tourist attraction; Volendam, where Christoph
Mulleneisen filmed des meeres und der liebe wellen for Dekage, and the Island of
Marken, where Joseph Delmont did location work for auf einsamer insel, an Eiko pro-
duction. These two German ‘adventures’ in the Netherlands are no isolated cases, for they
are part of larger trends: the emergence of artists’ colonies at sites of outstanding beauty, and
the simultaneous expansion of cross-border tourism at the turn of the century. What this
essay sets out to do is to evaluate this conjuncture in the context of another emergent expan-
sion, that of the cinema, hungry ever since its beginnings for new locations and exotic plac-
es. The argument will be that artists and tourists, but also the international film industry, all
‘discovered’ the pictorial qualities of ‘unspoiled’ locations like Volendam and Marken, each
institution or industry creating a discourse, and each discourse sustaining the values and
status of the others, in a process that has remained typical for the triad art-tourism-cinema
ever since, helping to define both European cinema and ‘Europe’ for the cinema. In the
specific case of des meeres und der liebe wellen and auf einsamer insel, one not only
can recover the traces of the gaze of the tourist and that of the artist, but also observe a
crucial definition of ‘Holland’ taking shape.

The Discovery of Volendam and Marken

When Mulleneisen and Delmont arrived in Volendam and Marken, these little towns had
already become tourist resorts, and a specific image existed of these places and their inhab-
itants. The French art historian Henry Havard can be considered the discoverer of the little
towns at the former Zuiderzee (nowadays the Ijsselmeer). Already in 1874, he characterised
the fishermen of the Zuiderzee in his travel account La Hoilande pittoresque , voyage aux
villes mortes du Zuyderzee :

The way they are squatting down, oriental-like, smoking their pipes taciturn,
immobile and indifferently, and their gaze wandering around aimlessly, they
possess rather the appearance of Turkish fatalists, instead of Dutch fishermen.
Everything in their looks contributes to this illusion, certainly in the first place
their wide trousers, their slippers, which they place in front of them when squat-
ting down this way, and their caps which mostly look like turbans. 1

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Havard’s travel account became immensely popular. A Dutch translation appeared in 1876,
a German one in 1882, and an English one in 1885. His book gave the starting signal for
making the cities around the Zuiderzee a complex symbol of the Zeitgeist, combining nos-
talgia for obsolete crafts and places that time forgot with a taste for the exotic, colourful and
unknown, as signalled by the reference to orientalism.

In the beginning this discovery was one made by artists. As early as 1 875 the
Englishman George Clausen visited Volendam and Marken with Havard’s travel book in his
hand, and a little later, partly due to exhibitions of work by Dutch and foreign artists, the
upcoming tourist industry seized on such places. Volendam in particular became an obliga-
tory excursion for each foreign tourist visiting the Netherlands, At the same time, in Volen-
dam, as in other Dutch locations like Laren, Domburg and Bergen, a true artists’ colony
sprang up and stayed there until the outbreak of World War I. 2

Spaander

The discovery of Volendam, however, did not happen solely on the basis of travel accounts
and views of the town painted or sketched by artists. Leendert Spaander, a local entrepre-
neur, played an important role by providing bed and board for the first foreign artists who
had come to Volendam, still lacking suitable hotel accommodation. Opening his house to
visitors, which got the nickname ‘De toevlucht’ (the refuge), Spaander proved himself not
only an amateur of the arts but also a shrewd business man with a good instinct for public
relations. In 1881 he bought a local bar, converting it into the Hotel Spaander, which is still
in existence today. In 1895 Spaander took his daughters to the opening of an exhibition of
the Dutch artist Nico Jungman at an art. gallery in London. For this occasion he dressed the
two girls in the typical costumes of Volendam. This stunt caused a stir. He had postcards
printed of Volendam and of his hotel and had them sent to all the foreign art academies. He
also ran ads for his hotel with the Holland- America shipping line. At the hotel, Spaander put
typically Volendam interiors at the disposal of the artists and, also for a fee, organized artist
models. His own daughters would often pose for artists, and as a result, three of them mar-
ried foreign painters. Spaander bought land at the back of his hotel in order to build studios
for artists who might want to stay in Volendam for longer periods. The majority, however,
only came on a passing visit, especially during the summer months. Unpaid accounts were
occasionally settled in exchange for paintings, giving Spaander a chance to amass an enor-
mous art collection. In turn, these paintings - along with the sights - attracted the tourists,
and his hotel became crowded by guests from all continents. From Spaander’s visitors’
books one can deduct that even millionaires like Carnegie and members of the royal family
stayed there. Filmmakers, too, show up in these visitors’ books. 3

Accessibility and Attraction of Volendam and Marken

For a long time, Volendam remained a remote fishermen’s town and Marken, being an is-
land, was almost totally inaccessible. In 1873 Havard had to navigate the coast of the

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Zuiderzee on a tjalk (barge), a mode of transport in use until the end of the 19th century.
From 1888 on a steam tram from the Noordhollandsche Tramwegmaatschappij travelled
from Amsterdam to Edam and back. From Edam one took the old tow-boat to Volendam. In
1 905 a special service was installed for the tourists, called from 1 906 onwards the ‘ Marken-
express,’ which provided a roundtrip from Amsterdam via Marken and Volendam. All man-
ner of transport was used en route. By steamboat the tourists crossed the IJ behind Central
Station at Amsterdam, There, at the Tolhuis (toll-house) station, one took the steam tram to
Monnickendam. At Monnickendam the motor boat of the Markerveer (Marken ferry) would
be waiting. From Marken one sailed by hotter (fishing boat) to Volendam, where a quick
lunch was ready at Hotel Spaander. The tour continued with the tow-boat to Edam, from
whence the steam tram took one back to Amsterdam, completing a day trip in the American
tempo.

Due to the diminishing returns from fishing and the threat of the Afsluitdijk, the
dyke being built to close the Zuiderzee off from the open sea, the villages and towns came,
by the turn of the century, to resemble dead cities. Yet it was precisely this dilemma which
created the anachronistic popular culture of Volendam and Marken to which artists were
mainly attracted, seeing how the life there contrasted with the industrialisation and modern-
isation of major Dutch cities like Rotterdam and Amsterdam, and of foreign capitals. The
untouched character of the Zuiderzee villages was praised. The gaudy colors of the costumes
of the inhabitants and the wooden houses with their doll’s house interiors, especially in
Marken crammed with decorative plates and knick-knack, spoke to the imagination of the
foreigners.

Typical for this period is the determining way in which these surroundings were
associated by artists, writers and tourists alike with an idealized image of humanity. The
people from Volendam were thought of as pious, honest, healthy and happy, satisfied with
little and mercifully ignorant of social problems such as alcoholism, which plagued big city
inhabitants (in the films of Delmont and Mulleneisen, the fishermen are not portrayed in
such a positive light). One preferred to pass over the poverty and the poor housing of the
fishermen, and the artists who worked on Volendam ’s and Marken’s nostalgic image had to
do some retouching of social reality, in order to associate these places credibly with a past,
that of the Dutch seventeenth century painting. The trend for painting in the open air and thus
the need to visit the locations and the skies of the old Dutch masters, had driven foreign
artists to Amsterdam and the North Sea. But when coastal locations like Scheveningen and
Katwijk became too fashionable, the gaze inevitably turned to the unspoiled places at the
Zuiderzee. 4

The Cinema and Couleur Locale

Because of the improved infrastructure alluded to above, it had become feasible and attrac-
tive for camera crews to reach Volendam and Marken. Already in August 1900, the Dutch
production company Noggerath took pictures of a naval review on the Zuiderzee, attended

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by Queen Wilhelmina, and in 1901 Noggerath released a film about ‘the island of Marken.’
In 1906 American Bio-Tableaux, a successor to the Dutch branch of the American Muto-
scope & Biograph Co., took footage of Volendam and Marken. Before long, other Dutch
companies like Alberts Freres and Hollandia followed. Furthermore, Dutch crews were not
the only ones present at Volendam and Marken. Between 1909 and 1914 the Netherlands as
a whole were a favoured subject for travel films made by foreign production companies, with
French (Raleigh & Robert, Eclipse), British (Cricks & Martin, Kineto) and Italians (Pasquali
en Comerio) also filming the Zuiderzee towns. As usual, its was Pathe Freres that took the
lead, finding here inspiration for several documentaries: une journee a l’ile de marken,

EN HOLLANDE— LE PORT DE VOLENDAM, COIFFURES ET TYPES DE L’ HOLLANDE and ENEANTS

de hollande, the last two partly shot at Volendam, and all of them released in 19l0. s

These documentaries were probably shot by the French filmmaker Alfred
Machin, who is known to have stayed in Volendam in September 1909. His signature has
been discovered with that date in the visitor’s book of Hotel Spaander. Machin returned
to Holland during the autumn of 191 1, where he used the history, the culture and the land-
scape of the Netherlands for a series of short fiction films. At Volendam he shot, partly in an
open air studio behind the Hotel Spaander, several fishermen's dramas. The first to be re-
leased (though not the first to be shot) was het vervloekte geld (l’or qui brule,
‘The Cursed Money’), with the famous Dutch theatre actor Louis Bouwmeester in the lead-
ing part. For the other films only foreigners were employed, with actors and the crew com-
ing partly from Belgium but mainly from France. Two painters, the Belgian Henri Cassiers
and the Frenchman Augustin Hanicotte, were present during the shooting. Possibly they
advised Machin on the authenticity of the pictures to take, as they were both residents of
Volendam and had made it their main artistic subject matter. Machin ’s films added a dimen-
sion to Volendam as a film subject because he made it the setting for fiction films shot on
location. 6

des meeres und der liebe wellen and auf einsamer insel

A year after Machin had shot his films at Volendam, a second film crew appeared on the
doorstep of Hotel Spaander with the intention of shooting a film. In Spaander’s visitors’
books one finds that from 16 to 20 November 1912, a certain Christoph Miilleneisen from
Cologne was in residence in order to take pictures for des meeres und der liebe wellen,
a film begun in Italy. 7

According to the intertitles in the film copy, however, the story is initially set in
Spain and not in Italy. The actual locations of the opening scenes on the other hand, remind
one of Italy, however. The discrepancy can be explained by briefly summarizing the plot.
des meeres und der liebe wellen is the story of Venila, the daughter of a Spanish cap-
tain, who falls in love with sailor Pietro. The captain illegally transports gunpowder to Scot-
land and conceals this fact from the insurance company. A jealous first mate sets the boat on
fire and steals the insurance policy. The captain commits suicide, his daughter escapes with

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the sailor on a raft. They are washed ashore at what the intertitles indicate is the Dutch isle
of Urk (but is in fact Volendam). The first mate is also washed ashore. Fishermen rescue
them and put Venila in the traditional costume of Urk (in reality a typical Volendam outfit ).
On his deathbed, the first mate repents and hands over the policy to Venila, who is now
financially able to marry Pietro. After a wedding in typical folkloristic style, the couple sets
sail for Spain again, waving goodbye to the locals. 8

A year after the 'expedition' to the Netherlands by Mulleneisen, the German
director Joseph Delmont came to Holland to shoot two films. These were the crime story
der geheimnisvolle klub, shot at Rotterdam, Scheveningen and possibly Amsterdam,
and the fishermen’s drama auf einsamer insel, shot on Marken. Delmont was a specialist
in exotic films. According to his autobiography, he had, as early as 1902, taken part in
travels around the world to take pictures. For his films he always looked for authenticity,
getting irritated by the way others were faking it in Africa:

In particular with regard to the festivities and dances of native tribes the most
impossible fakes have been foisted on the cinema public. (...) To portray the
people, the fauna and the flora of a strange country on the films one needs time,
more time and still more time, No producer or cameraman ought to attempt such
a film without the help of an expert, if he wants to obtain a picture of real cultural
value. 9

It is not known where exactly Delmont stayed at Marken. At the time, there was only one
hotel on the island. Hotel De Jong, but no visitors’ book or other sources have remained. But
if he did not stay on the island and went ashore each night, there is nevertheless no signature
by his hand in the visitors' book of Hotel Spaander. Possibly he stayed at another Volendam
hotel, given that since 1905 a second one was managed by Frits Veldhuizen. 10 Delmont must
have been at Marken for quite some time, because his film was a three-acter, a feature-
length film in those days. Mulleneisen ’s film was also longer than the films Machin shot at
Volendam, averaging less than 350 metres, the maximum length of a one-act 'one-reeler.’ If
Mulleneisen ’s film (of which only the scond part was set in Volendam) needed four to five
days’ location work, then Delmont must have been filming at Marken for dose to two
weeks, since his picture is entirely set there, with many outdoor shots. The interiors were
done in the studio, as was probably the case with Mulleneisen’s film. We know that Delmont
used the Komet Film studio in Berlin.

AUF EINSAMER INSEL, just like DES MEERES UNO DER UEBR WElXEN, is a love
triangle. The rich fisherman Pieter (Fred Sauer) is after the beautiful and equally rich Sijtje
(Mia Cordes), but she only has eyes for his mate, the poor fisherman Dirk (played by Del-
mont himself). Her father, of course, prefers Pieter, who sabotages the boat on the high seas,
leaving Dirk to drift out of control, until he reaches a desert island. Claiming an accident,
Pieter pretends Dirk has perished and marries Sijtje, Dirk is saved by a foreign ship, just as
he is about to kill his loyal dog for food. Years later, he returns to his village, in time to

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defend Sijtje and her little daughter against Pieter, now an alcoholic and a wife-abuser. In a
drunken lit, Pieter sets his own boat on fire while at sea. Dirk tries to save him, but in vain,
so that after the funeral, Sijtje and Dirk can be together at last.

Class Distinctions

At first sight auf einsamer insel and des meeres und der liebe wellen have much in
common. Both have a ‘good guy,’ a ‘bad guy’ and ‘the woman in the middle,’ and in both,
good triumphs over evil, and evil is punished by death. The rival disappears, so the hero
gets the woman. However, besides the rival, other elements function as obstacles blocking
the relationship. In auf einsamer insel, class distinctions thwart the course of love:
Sijtje ’s rich parents try to match her with another rich fisherman, with the hero compensat-
ing class by a doubly selfless act, defending a woman and child against a brutal husband,
and trying to save the life of a man who was his deadly enemy. In des meeres und der
liebe wellen the difference in rank or class is still there: the ‘bad guy’ is first mate, the
‘good guy’ is merely a hired hand. Venila’s father dies during the shipwreck and is thus
spared having views about a captain’s daughter being in love with an ordinary sailor, who
- as in auf einsamer insel — defends the woman against unwanted advances and saves
her, showing himself worthy by virtue of his strength and dedication.

If class distinctions can be bridged by moral heroism, differences in wealth are
resolved by melodramatic solutions. Venila cannot marry her sailor for lack of money, a
problem the film solves by the rival turning up with the valuable insurance policy and con-
veniently showing remorse before dying. In auf einsamer insel Dirk’s years away in the
United States and his fancy clothes suggest a man of means, thus removing the financial
barrier. In this respect, both films are typical examples of early German cinema, where
conflicts of class and social status are frequently either the dominant or subsidiary cause of
melodrama. 11

Authentic Setting and Deep Staging

What distinguishes the two films under discussion is the role played by the location.
The Dutch version of des meeres und der liebe wellen, for instance, was called een
schipbreuk op de hollandsche kust (‘A Shipwreck on the Dutch Coast’). On the other
hand, since ‘Urk’ was the name of the island in the German release version, it would
indicate that no clearly identifiable location was intended. Rather, a more general image
of ‘Dutchness’ prevails, with ‘couleur locale’ rather than documentary truth being the
usual way the Zuiderzee culture was represented. Already in 1875 George Clausen caused
a stir at the Royal Academy in London with his painting High Mass at a fishing village
on the Zuyderzee, which depicts Volendam fishermen in front of the church of Monnicken-
dam.

In auf einsamer insel the location of Marken is nowhere mentioned in the
intertitles, nor does the German trade press give a specific location. 12 Nonetheless, the un-

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mistakeably Dutch names of the characters must have given German audiences enough of a
hint that the film was set in Holland, and in some trade papers the subtitle ‘A drama in 3 acts
from modem Holland' gave added confirmation. 13

Location

In both films, therefore, great pains have been taken over the authenticity of locations and
props, evident from the interior scenes, shot in German studios. As was the habit of passing
artists as well, the two film crews probably bought souvenirs on the spot in order to dress the
studio sets later, giving the interiors their rather credible look. In des meeres und der
liebe wellen the first interior scene once the protagonists arrive in Holland is almost
emblematic. On the back wall hang: a clock, a poker, a mirror, small paintings with genre
images (among which a picture with a little girl followed by a cockerel and one with a boy
followed by a goose) next to a sideboard filled with decorative plates. On the floor are two
kitchen chairs with rush-bottomed seats and a chest with an imitation of the famous
L’ Angelas by Jean Francois Millets painted on it. 14 The people present are in typical Volen-
dam costumes. The man smokes a stone pipe and wears the characteristic cap. In the interior
scene with the dying first mate, the two small paintings just mentioned return in the setting.
Decorative plates are again visible above the alcove where the man is lying. Landscape
scenes cover the wall, next to an oil lamp and a candle on a stick. The interiors are modest
and reflect the limited means of the little houses of Volendam.

The interior of the living room of Sijtje’s family in auf einsamer insel is much
larger, connoting a wealthy family. The room is filled to the brim with ornamental plates and
is generally bulging with objects, furniture and bric-a-brac, thus conveying the super-
abundance and ‘horror vacuf typical for Marken, where people cover the walls up to the
ceiling with plates, paintings and prints, and place buffets and etageres against the walls to

Historical Dutch interior,
ca. 1910

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AUF EINSAMER INSEL
(1913)

show off their knick-knacks. The Marken interiors, however, are all extremely small in size,
in contrast to Delmont’s film, which wants to suggest wealth by size. Here, too, the persons
wear the typical Marken costume, such as the richly embroidered jackets and the small
bonnets.

The feeling for space recurs in Delmont’s film also in the exterior scenes. It can
be related to his style. While Miilleneisen’s film has modest, small sets that look quite flat due
to frontal staging, Delmont always seeks out diagonals in his compositions. This gives the
exterior scenes the impression that Marken must have been quite a large fishermen’s town
(which it was not), echoing the interiors where actors navigate space without bumping into
the furniture, something which could be a problem in an authentic Marken interior. It sug-
gests that one of the major contributions of Delmont’s style is his feeling for staging in depth,
helping to demolish the barrier between the films of the teens and the spectator of today.

The tight and simple sets in des meeres und der liebe wellen are probably
closer to the reality of Volendam than auf einsamer insel ’s handling of space is to the
reality of Marken. The former’s sets, however, give the impression of having been made
cheaper and faster, and hint at a more traditional production. Delmonts’ sets and camera
angles indicate a change in style and mise-en-scene that is all the more remarkable consid-
ering that auf einsamer insel was produced only one year after des meeres und der

LIEBE WELLEN.

Space and perspective stand primarily in function of the film and help to create a
reality on its own. But the many location shots and deep staging in the interior scenes also
refer to a second reality, that of a Dutch fishermen’s island as fixed by foreign artists and the
tourist industry, and bearing only a tenuous relation to life on Marken in the year 1913. auf
einsamer insel and des meeres und der liebe wellen thus invite comparison with the
Zuiderzee iconography from the plastic arts.

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Representation of the Zuiderzee in Germany

From the 1880s onward, Holland was fashionable among German artists. They commended
the Dutch light, the Dutch skies, the locations of the old Dutch masters, responding to the
urge for plein air 1 painting. The village of Katwijk on the North Sea coast was not only
popular with Dutch artists like Jozef Israels, but also with German painters like Hans von
Bartels, the epoch-making German impressionist, who toured the Netherlands from Katwi-
jk and spent ten weeks in Volendam in 1893. Max Lieberman stayed at Katwijk also, but
painted little of the Zuiderzee except at Edam. He preferred Amsterdam and the places by
the North Sea: Zandvoort, Katwijk and Noordwijk, depicting scenes of the elegant life on
the beaches of Scheveningen, Nonetheless, in tracking the iconography of ‘Dutchness’ in
auf einsamer insel, Heide Schliipmann rightly refers to Liebermann. 15 Even if he never
painted either Volendam or Marken, Liebermann may have inspired Delmont in more than
just the use of light and spaciousness. Think of the oils and watercolors by Liebermann like
the painting The Menders of Nets (1887-1889) and a gouache with the same title (1898),
both showing women at work in Katwijk. 16 More solid evidence for a history of this iconog-
raphy might be the fact that well before the German translation of I lavard's travel journal
appeared in 1882, the German painter Rudolf Jordan had visited the island of Marken in
1844, where he was overwhelmed by the colourful costumes: ‘The costumes, the costumes,
the costumes O! Ah! Hurrah! Heavenly! I’ll paint heads. Ah, the costumes! Ah, my good
folk! They’ll give me everything I need.’ Jordan took costumes or accessories home in order
to put them on models, who would pose for his paintings. This gave rise to some fantastical
ensembles, including errors in authenticity like bonnets worn back to front. 17

With the rise of tourism to the Dutch North Sea resorts and villages in the 1880s,
numerous German artists looked to the Zuiderzee for ‘virgin territory’ and moved to Volen-
dam and Marken. They were by no means the most insignificant ones. Hans von Bartels and
Carl Jacoby showed their Zuiderzee pictures at the great annual exhibitions in Brussels,
London, Paris, Berlin and Vienna, winning several medals with them. Their work received
positive reviews and sold well, especially to private collectors. Another famous painter was
Georg Hering, a pupil of Lovis Corinth, who established himself in Volendam in 1910 and
married one of Spaander’s daughters, Pauline. Many of these artists worked in a style that
was halfway between romantic realism and an impressionism related to the Haagse School.
At the beginning of this century, this style became a cliche for lack of renewal, but contin-
ued to find a ready market until the outbreak of the World War I, thus providing a ‘common
knowledge’ base for German audiences about these Zuiderzee villages. Delmont and
Miilleneisen must have been influenced by this representation, considering how clearly cer-
tain images of their films refer to late nineteenth and early twentieth century genre painting.
Even at the time, the Austrian film magazine Die Filmwoche noted:

So it w r as an excellent idea to leave for once our Fatherland and make a trip to

Holland whose picturesque landscapes and magnificent costumes provide a col-

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ourful context for the events of the drama, which greatly adds to its attraction.
This is another proof that Joseph Delmont is not only a versatile director but also
possesses much sensitivity for pictorial effects. He has succeeded in creating
some attractive genre pictures and recorded on Film some of the most interesting
national customs. 18

Both Miilleneisen and Delmont create an image of the Zuiderzee as something archetypical,
underlined by neither indicating an exact location: the classical Dutch fishermen’s village,
where everybody is dressed in costume and the men wear clogs, drink Dutch gin and suck
on a pipe, while the women wait patiently at the harbor quay, with their sons or husbands out
on the perilous high seas. A similarly archetypical image of the Netherlands could be found
in the films of Alfred Machin, so much so that the Dutch popular magazine Het Leven
featured an article in 1911 fiercely protesting against these foreign ‘windmills and clogs
films’ which created the impression Holland had nothing more to offer than folkloristic
types and surroundings. On the other hand, these foreign productions exercised an impor-
tant influence on the young Dutch fiction film industry. When the film company Hollandia
started producing fiction films from 1 9 12 on, these were indeed mainly fishermen and mill-
ers’ dramas, reproducing the same folkloristic image of the Netherlands (de levende lad-
der [‘The Living Ladder'}, 1913, op hoop van zegen ['The Good Hope'], 1918] or was
even parodied (twee zeeuwsche meisjes in zandvoort [‘Two Girls from Zeeland at
Zandvoort’], 1913). 19

Yet it is important not to project the overfamiliarity of the Zuiderzee iconogra-
phy today on des meeres und der liebe wellen and auf einsamer insel. These films
are representative for a period of iconographic innovation, where places like Volendam and
Marken were still exotic locations, before becoming typical, even stereotypical for the
Netherlands, partly due to the very popularity of such films and their close alliance with
tourism and the mass consumption of cliche or myth. With the outbreak of the war, the
stream of foreign artists, filmmakers and tourists stagnated, and the Zuiderzee iconography
lost favour with the cinema and the plastic arts after the war. As a reaction to the mass-
tourist image, Dutch cinema made the villages at the Zuiderzee once more an ‘issue’ in the
thirties, now focussing on the social cost of the closing of the Zuiderzee and the forced shift
to agriculture, at a time of agricultural crisis. Losing much of their careless exotic and idyl-
lic character, the villages became the settings of social dramas like Gerard Rutten’s terra
nova (1932) and dood water (‘Dead Water,’ 1934) and social documentaries like Joris
Ivens’ nieuwe gronden (‘New Land,’ 1934). Yet internationally, the images which Miille-
neisen and Delmont helped to consolidate have survived, obliging these places to ‘live up’
to their own myth, and thus proving the strength of the cinema in putting into circulation its
own versions of reality, even in the face of reality.

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Stylistic Expressivity in die landstrasse

Kristin Thompson

Expressivity in the Teens

Over the past decade, historians have begun to find the teens an extraordinarily rich field for
exploration by film historians. 1 A decade previously summed up by cabiria, the birth of
a nation, Thomas Ince, Charlie Chaplin, and the early Swedish cinema has now revealed
an enormous international variety previously little suspected.

Older histories also treated the teens simply as the period in which the cinema
gained an ability to tell a clear story, primarily through continuity editing. During this era,
films supposedly went from being theatrical to being ‘cinematic’ through an increasing use
of editing and camera movement. Yet these two techniques have been privileged only in
retrospect. At the time, filmmakers presumably felt free to explore all cinematic techniques,
including acting, the long take, and depth staging in their quest to tell stories more clearly
and expressively.

It is that expressivity upon which I wish to focus here. It is one thing to tell a
story clearly, and no doubt most of the filmmakers’ efforts were concentrated on that task, at
least during the first half of the teens. But a filmmaker may aspire to go further, enhancing
the impact of his/her presentation of events. I have argued elsewhere 2 that from about 1912
onwards, there was an increasing move by filmmakers in many countries to investigate all
the expressive possibilities of the new art form.

For some reason, that move seems to have gained a sudden intensity in 1913, a
year in which an extraordinary number of rich and inventive films appeared. Among them
was Paul von Worringen’s early German feature, die landstrasse, which vividly exempli-
fies the search for expressive filmic style. The film was long lost and eventually redis-
covered in the Desmet collection of the Nederlands Filmmuseum. It was perhaps the most
important revelation of the pre- 1920 German retrospective at the 1 990 festival, Le Giornate
del Cinema Muto, in Pordenone, Italy. In this essay, I propose to analyze two aspects of the
film’s style that seem to me unusual for the cinema of the early to mid-teens: first, how
similar framings are used to create parallels between the murderous escaped convict and the
wandering tramp mistakenly accused of his crime, and second, how long takes of a type
completely atypical for American (and most other) films of the era are used to create a slow
rhythm for certain stretches of the film. Frank Kessler has previously commented on the
film’s narrative structure and some aspects of its style. 3 1 shall try not to duplicate his excel-
lent analysis but rather make some additional points about die landstrasse.

1 should note before setting out upon my analysis that the only surviving ver-

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Fig. 1 Fig. 2

sion of die landstrasse is an original Dutch distribution print in the Desmet collection of
the Nederlands Filmmuseum. It is difficult to say how closely it conforms to the original
German version. Indeed, there seem to be at least two portions in which significant footage
is missing. The nightclub scene during which the police attempt to arrest the convict is
most confusing - something that is not typical of the rest of the film - and probably there
were some shots at the beginning setting up the presence of the police and convict. Simi-
larly, immediately after the convict first walks along the main road in the village, he is seen
sitting eating in the woods (Fig. 1). Then abruptly, he is back in the village. In the original
print, the latter shot is tinted in blue, indicating a time lapse to night. Basically, it would
seem that after the convict finds some coins in the fanner’s purloined suit, he goes into
town, and buys (or perhaps steals) some victuals in a missing bit of footage. He then re-
turns to the countryside in order to eat it. The next shot represents his return to the village
that night in order to find a place to sleep (the hay-loft of the farm). Fortunately, such lacu-
nae seem relatively limited, and hence it is still possible to make some observations about
the film’s style.

Spatial Motifs

die landstrasse works largely through parallelism, introducing two characters of roughly
equal importance who do not actually meet until the very last scene. (The exceptions are
only apparent: Unnoticed by the tramp, the convict watches him through a window as he
climbs down from the loft, and at that point the two do appear briefly in the same shot. But
even at the trial of the tramp, the presence of the convict among the spectators is not re-
vealed until after the tramp is already out of the room.) Yet once the tramp is introduced, the
two men’s actions are systematically compared, not only because they often behave in com-
parable ways (both limp, for example), but also because the framings, camera angles, direc-
tions of movement, and so on are often remarkably similar.

This notion of using motifs based on the camera’s spatial orientation on the ac-
tion was a sophisticated and fairly novel one. D.W. Griffith had used simple versions of it in
some of his Biograph shorts. The first and last shots of the country doctor (1909), for

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example, consist of 'bookend' pans in reverse directions across the same bucolic landscape
- a suggestion of life continuing despite the events of the plot. More famously, the musket-
eers of pig alley (1913) uses a motif of offscreen space at several key moments. Directors
in other countries were also occasionally exploring filmic motifs. Victor Sjbstrom plays on
variations of depth in scenes of characters standing on a ferry landing or on the ferry ap-
proaching the landing in tradgardsmastaren (‘the broken spring rose,’ 1912). 4

Such motifs, however, remained rare indeed in an era when filmmakers were
still working out ways of keeping the spatial and temporal relations between shots clear
while telling a comprehensible story. Today, when this sort of visual echoing has become a
staple of the art cinema, such films can look remarkably ‘modem* in comparison with other
works of their day. 5 This is certainly the case with die landstrasse, whose methodical
repetitions and occasional long takes almost seem to look forward to the work of Bresson,
Angelopoulos, or Kiarostami.

die landstrasse creates parallels between its two main characters, a vicious
escaped convict and an apparently simple-minded tramp who is accused of a murder com-
mitted by the former. The reason for these parallels is less clear, since the traits of the two
men are quite different: the convict is a cold-blooded killer who allows another man to take
the blame for his crime; the tramp is a harmless man trying to scrape out a living. I suspect
that the parallels are evoked in order to create precisely this ironic contrast between the two
and to suggest how easily a simple, unpretentious life can be disrupted. If so, die land-
strasse falls easily into the early phases of what was to emerge as the ‘art cinema’ in the
post-w-ar period. Certainly, such thematic material would fit into the short-lived but prestig-
ious Autorenfilm of the German cinema of the early teens.

Fig. 3

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Fig. 4 Fig. 5

Kessler has pointed out parallelisms created by repetitions of setting and action,
as when the tramp and the convict both climb into the loft of the house where the murder
occurs:

The mise-en- scene, too, constantly refers one storyline to the other and is sup-
ported by the construction of a homogeneous diegetic space. Thus, when the
tramp breaks in, he follows the same path as the prisoner before him, and the
scenes are repeated to a certain extent, which creates a stronger impression of
deja vu. The same is generally true for the way in which the same locations
appear and reappear throughout Acts II and III: the bam, the farmyard, the loft,
etc. 6

For Kessler, these parallelisms are important because they result from the crosscutting that
characterizes the first three acts of the film but disappears in the last two.

Such repetitions are quite insistent in the first three reels of the film. For exam-
ple, the tramp’s departure from the village takes him past the same pump where the convict
had earlier taken a drink in a similar framing (Fig. 2). But even when the locations are
different, the framing can set up an echo of an earlier scene. This happens most notably
during the shot in which the tramp walks from the background to sit by a bush in the fore-
ground; he hides the stolen meat under the bush and eats a bit of the loaf he has bought. His
position, slightly to the right of center and in the lower part of the frame strongly recalls the
similar framing of the convict eating a bit of food earlier on (see Fig. 1).

In addition to the straightforward parallelisms between characters created by this
sort of repetition, there is another spatial motif that furnishes a contrast. The convict is
associated with vertical descents from heights. The second shot of the story proper is a low
angle that shows a sheet dangling from an unseen window above the frame. The escapee
shinnies down along it and drops to the ground. Later, he climbs up into the attic of the
farmhouse and sneaks down the steps to commit the robbery and murder with which the
tramp will be charged. Finally, during the scene of his arrest, the convict leaps from the
balcony of a nightclub (Fig. 3) and receives the fatal injury that will lead to his deathbed
confession.

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Fig, 6 Fig. 7

These descents are juxtaposed to the tramp’s slow, limping progress along the
eponymous country road, as well as to the farmers’ back-and-forth daily visits to the fields
along the same road (Fig. 4). The flat, blank road may suggest the normalcy of everyday
routine, which the convict’s eruptions from above disturb. (It is perhaps noteworthy that
while both the convict and the tramp climb the ladder into the farmhouse loft, the tramp
does not go down the interior staircase, but retreats as he had come.) Certainly, the final
shot (Fig. 5), in which the tramp leaves jail to set out once more upon the road, suggests that
the tedious routine of his life is beginning again. This byplay between vertical movements
down from the top of the screen and horizontal movements across the screen constitutes an
unusual motif for a film of 191 3.

Long Takes

Kessler has argued quite convincingly that what he considers the first three acts of a five-act
film are dominated by relatively frequent cuts, especially during the passage of intercutting
between the convict and the tramp during the murder/robbery scene. He suggests that the
very long take showing the deathbed confession (Fig. 6, roughly six minutes in length 7 )
strongly contrasts with that earlier editing pattern. I would agree with this with one proviso.
While on average the cutting is faster earlier in the film, there are several relatively lengthy
takes in this same portion that create another stylistic motif and set up for the impressive
climactic scene. Again, to a traditional historian, such shots might seem evidence of the
backward staginess of die landstrasse. Yet they little resemble the single-shot scenes of
earlier films of the pre-classical period.

The first such lengthy take occurs in the farmhouse and shows a young woman
helping an elderly man (her father or grandfather?) off with his outer clothes (Fig. 7); pre-
sumably he has fallen ill in the field. We wait through this slow process, which is extended by
his panting and feeble gestures. The shot would last roughly two and three-quarter minutes at
silent speed. Its main function is to establish quite redundantly that the old man is an easy
target for the convict, who later murders him. It also perhaps helps to establish the slow pace
associated with everyday life in this film — slow even in comparison with the notoriously

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leisurely paced German cinema of the post-war era. Certainly, a Hollywood film would
dispose of this action in a small fraction of the time.

Perhaps the most impressive of the long takes prior to the confession scene is the
one in which the tramp has a meal in the forest. It begins as he moves from the distance (Fig.
8) into the foreground; he cuts his bread and meat, eats, drinks, hides the remainder of the
meat, and continues eating and gazing vacantly around to the end of the shot, which again
lasts about two and three-quarter minutes (Fig. 9). Here the long take seems simply to re-
spect the rhythm of a series of mundane actions, again in a fashion that suggests post-World
War II art cinema. True, the tramp’s meal is a cutaway that covers the time of the gathering
of a large group of townspeople at the farm where the murder has been committed. But other
films of this period would use a much briefer cutaway for that purpose. This long take
resolutely refuses to offer the spectator any drama, any significant new narrative informa
tion. I do not recall anything comparable in other silent films, and if nothing else qualified
die landstrasse as worthy of our attention, these few minutes would.

Fig. 8

Fig. 9

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Fig. 10

The motif of extended takes continues when the tramp is dragged back for in-
terrogation and arrest. The shot of witnesses accusing him and him feebly denying anything
but the theft of the meat (Fig. 10) once again takes about two and three-quarter minutes. The
confusing long-shot of the nightclub in which the convict is pursued and fatally injures
himself in trying to flee (see Fig. 3) lasts about two minutes, including an insert photograph
of the convict (apparently held by police present in the shot).

The notion that the long take could be a positive, constructive component of an
early feature seems remote and implausible. Ordinarily, we think of rapid crosscutting or
shot/reverse-shot editing as constituting the leading edge of innovation in the mid-teens. Yet
die landstrasse moves in the opposite direction, extending scenes not simply by adding
shots, but by prolonging some of them considerably. They surely represent a testing of
cinematic possibilities fully as much as do the rapid editing and flashy camera movements
of other films of the era. Expressivity, in addition to clarity, is thus served.

Conclusions: An Amalgam of Stylistic Possibilities

Kessler has suggested that die landstrasse mixes techniques from various stylistic para-
digms of the day. The long-take confession scene, he argues, is a theatrical moment com-
parable to the end of la reine Elisabeth, while the opening is more like the crime dramas
of the day. s This is not surprising, since in the pre-war period, films were still circulating
internationally with little impediment, and influences passed easily from country to country.

Yet die landstrasse does not have an eclectic or disunified feel about it, be-
cause these techniques have been modified, always toward the same basic end. The con-
vict’s confession (see Fig. 6) is staged quite differently from the end of la reine Elisa-
beth. There we watch a virtuosic display of acting from Sarah Bernhardt, seen in long shot
and definitely the center of attention. In die landstrasse, the action is much closer to the

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camera, people come and go, and in the early portion of the scene, there is depth staging as
the patients in a row of beds at the rear listen agitatedly to the convict’s confession; during
the confession and the repetition of it to the nurse and doctors, our eye is likely to shuttle
between the convict and the tramp.

Similarly, the slow pace and relative lack of dynamic action of the opening scene
of the convict’s escape from prison would seem to set it apart from something like the
comparable scene that begins the Danish crime film, gar el ham a ih, slange0nen (Rob-
ert Dinesen, 1914). Even the most rapidly edited section of die landstrasse, the crosscut-
ting between the convict murdering the old farmer and the tramp arriving in the village,
mutes rather than enhances the violence of the crime. It also generates little of the suspense
conventionally associated with crosscutting (the last-minute rescue), since we do not yet
have any idea how the tramp’s actions will relate causally to those of the convict.

Thus, while von Worringen draws upon a variety of norms of the era, he has
done so for unusual ends. Despite its few moments of intense action, die landstrasse is
essentially an atmospheric film, lacking characters with focused goals. The convict, of
course, wants to elude capture and steal whatever he can, but this is hardly a specific goal;
the tramp is essentially passive and even appears to feel happier in the prison infirmary than
at any other point. The result is a very simple plot which lingers over individual actions and
psychological reactions. This simplicity in turn permits the plot to progress with virtually
no intertitles - a rare feat for a feature film of the era, though one which of course would
become a self-proclaimed goal for many German filmmakers of the twenties.

die landstrasse demonstrates one reason why historians have come to regard
1913 as such a turning point in film history. While owing much to early cinema, it already
seems at least as close, if not closer to the tradition of the art film that would be recognized
and discussed after the war. That is, it offers a significant alternative vision of filmmaking to
that of Hollywood, even at a period when the norms of classical filmmaking were still in the
formative stage.

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Two 'Stylists' of the Teens:
Franz Hofer and Yevgenii Bauer

Yuri Tsivtan

As far as the European cinema is concerned, I see the teens as a relatively unknown period
squeezed between relatively well-known ones: the cinema of the twenties (the various
avantgardes) and the pioneers’ decade (of the Lumieres, Gaumont and Pathe in France,
Paul, Hepworth and Williamson in Britain, and Messier in Germany).

in comparison with these, films of the teens are often considered less interesting
(which is unfair) and unoriginal (which is not true). Only because the cinema of the teens was
trying to reach middle-class audiences and, in order to achieve this, wanted to look as re-
spectable as it could, we tend to define it as ‘derivative’ and ‘enslaved’ to other arts, notably
the theatre; this prejudice is particularly strong in respect to early Russian cinema, which
came later to be overshadowed so completely by such titanic figures as Vertov or Eisenstein.

I want to show that, first, there is nothing wrong with being derivative and, sec-
ond, that if we look at films from the (only slightly) hypothetical vantage point of ‘the
period itself,’ instead of our conveniently (and deceptively) omniscient hindsight that takes
our present preferences as the norm, then contemporary cinematic imitations or borrowings
from high art can reveal themselves to have been highly innovative - even experimental -
ways of handling images.

To support the first argument, I will consider one image from Yevgenii Bauer’s
the dying swan (1917) and use it to relate this Russian film to an extracinematic tradition
reaching back to artistic Bohemia in Berlin of the 1890s; for the second point I will refer to
such staging devices as shooting into mirrors and ‘precision’ blocking (using examples
from Bauer’s and Franz Hofer films for the latter) in order to show that what to the modem
observer may appear as a purely ‘theatrical’ technique was in fact cinema’s early claim to
originality, or, as we would put it today, the filmmakers’ search for ‘cinematic’ specificity.

That we are not always able to recognize at a glance the ‘cinematic’ quality of
the teens’ cinema is largely because our notion of what is and what is not part of the ‘nature’
of cinema is somew hat different from the ideas held by the filmmakers of the teens. As film
historians we understand how much one ought to be wary of essentialist statements, realiz-
ing that notions like ‘cinematic,’ ‘nature’ or ‘medium’ are merely cultural and aesthetic
configurations which, for all the power that they may have over critics and filmmakers, live
and die together with their epoch. Yet, being at the same time the children of the 20th centu-
ry and sharing its cultural doxa, even the most rigorous film historians sometimes find it
hard to resist the spell of the essentialist discourse coined in the twenties, the period domi-
nated by avant-garde sensibilities. Deep inside, many of us still believe that the medium of

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cinema has a ‘nature’ or ‘essence,’ that, whatever it may be, the specificity of the medium is
‘inherent’ in (and can be ‘distilled’ from) its basic technology (be it cinema’s ‘photographic’
quality, its ‘dynamism,’ or other) and that this nature or essence is something that the art of
cinema must always be true to. For all the respect that we may have for intertextuality, we
also tacitly agree that ‘being true to the nature of the medium’ entails ‘not being like any
other art.’ I want to argue that all these things become less axiomatic from the point of view
of the teens’ cinema. I do not claim that the filmmakers of the teens were completely free of
any such tenets, but rather that the way in which they imagined the specific nature of the
medium they worked within was different, maybe only slightly so, yet enough to blunt the
edge of novelty of the period in the eyes of those whose very sense of novelty and innova-
tion was imbibed from the cinema of the twenties, still the big mother of us all.

In particular, it seems that for directors like Bauer and Hofer, ‘being original* did
not automatically entail ‘being independent,’ at least not from high arts other than stage
theatre which, as I will argue later, European filmmakers of the teens strove to dissociate
themselves from rather than identify with (a fully reciprocated tendency, of course, judging
by the many hate essays about the cinema to be found in theatre periodicals of the teens, both
in Germany and Russia). If I were sure I could avoid Freudian associations, I would say that
in the family of the arts the teenage art of cinema felt hostile towards its closest parent, live
theatre, while at the same time trying to look like painting, a more distant, yet equally
‘aristocratic’ relative. Looking at the cinema ofYevgenii Bauer, one feels that for this direc-
tor the most welcome (in fact, often consciously provoked) compliment would be that his
films look like ‘paintings in motion’ - not a rare definition of the ‘nature of the medium’ in
film-related literature of the teens. 1 In 1915 the Russian poet Sergei Gorodetsky went as far
as to propose a new term for ‘cinema,’ ‘zhiznopis’ (‘life- writing’), coined by analogy with
‘zhivopis’ (‘live- writing’), a standard Russian word for ‘painting.’ 2 While, in theory, this
‘painting-in-motion’ concept was presented as an ideal marriage, in practice, particularly in
Russian films, the ‘painting’ constituent often prevailed over the factor of ‘motion.’ The
tendency was so salient that in Russian film literature of that decade you often discover that
‘the principle of immobility’ is declared central for the new (national) film aesthetics. 3 Here
we find another distinction between the essentialist discourse of the teens and that of the
twenties: while major film theories of the later decade formulated the essence of film art in
terms of its technical data, such as ‘speed,’ ‘motion,’ or ‘montage,’ the theorists of pre-
Kuleshovian Russia insisted that film becomes art not in keeping with but in spite of cine-
ma’s ‘mechanical nature.’

In this respect, Bauer (a former theatre set designer, involved in film production from
1913 to 1917) should be seen as one of the most consistent proponents of this perverse
aesthetics according to which the ‘true nature’ of film art is defined ‘by proxy’ from older
arts, and the mastery of the film medium is understood in defiance of what, on the face of it,
looks like the medium’s prime technical advantages. Kevin Brownlow once said that Bau-
er’s films had only two speeds: ‘slow’ and ‘stop,’ which is perfectly true, but I would like to

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add that looking at some of Bauer’s best films, you sometimes feel he probably preferred the
‘stops’: the actors pause for four or five seconds, and the moving image turns into a still
picture. At these moments one can actually see Bauer the film director turn into Bauer the
painter (as far as we know, he never became one; when a student, he was expelled from the
Moscow College of Painting, Sculpture and Architecture).

Bauer’s favourite pretext for parking the film’s narrative were characters’
dreams and visions, and thk dying swan contains a particularly vivid example: a melan-
choly young woman, abandoned by her fiance, meets a decadent painter obsessed with the
image of Death, and the young woman agrees to sit as a model for his painting called
‘Death.’ Halfway through, however, the fiance returns, and the girl is once more happy, so
that the painter has to strangle her in order to be able to finish his work of art. At one point,
the girl has a dream (Fig. 1), This dream has already acquired its own history of readings. At
the 1992 Domitor conference in Lausanne, Paolo Cherchi Usai, in the context of discussing
the (art historical) concept of ‘influence’ in early cinema, made the point that a number of
images comparable to those of Bauer were current in international cinema well before 1917,
specifically, in aspettando il diretto de mezzanotte (191 1) (Fig. 2). Similar visions of
hands, but with one arm stretching into the frame from off-screen space could also be found
in cabiria and in Lois Webers ! s shoes/ After Paolo Cherchi Usai’s paper, Ivo Blom inter-
vened to say that he recalled an even earlier example from la poule aux eufs d’or, made
by Pathe in 1908 (Fig. 3). In the discussion that followed, everyone (including Paolo, Ivo
and myself) agreed that there must be a non-cinematic parallel as well, most probably com-
ing from tum-of-the-century Symbolist Art. I kept on looking, and what I found was the
frontispiece to Peladan’s ‘Femmes honnetes’ (Fig. 4), painted by the Belgian Symbolist
Artist Fernand Khnopff, symbolizing woman as the object of man’s lust. This composition
has no textual counterpart in Peladan’s book, but art historians have pointed out a simitar
image which even earlier (in 1 895) was used by Edvard Munch for a lithograph (Fig. 5), and
to me, Munch’s picture looks quite similar to Bauer’s shot, both iconologically and in terms
of what it refers to. 5

In addition (and this is my own discovery, unless someone whose work 1 do not
know had discovered it before me), this image has a contemporary literary parallel in the
work of Munch’s friend, the Polish decadent writer Stanislaw Przybyszewsky. In this case,
moreover, there was a love story hidden behind the intertextuality of the symbol. The fact is
that in 1895, when living in Berlin, Munch fell in love with Prybyszewsky’s wife, an ex-
traordinary Norwegian redhead by the name of Dagnia (Przybyszewska) who, so the ru-
mour went, never wore a corset. An emancipated, true tum-of-the-century character, Dagnia
was also courted by August Strindberg, at about the same time as Munch was after her.
Thus, it was an open secret that the figure depicted in the centre of this Munch lithograph
called ‘Lust’ was Dagnia. Her exacting high-life eventually extracted Its price, for legend
has it that, years later, she died at the hands of a jealous Russian army officer in Morocco.

To return to Bauer’s visual motif in the dying swan. In the novel Homo Sapi-

266 Yuri Tsivian

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Fiu y

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Fig.4 Fig-5

ens, written in the same year 1895 by Dagnia’s husband Stanislaw Przybyszewsky, 1 found
a passage which looks to me like a literary riposte to Munch’s offensive image. The novel
features one Mikita, a misunderstood artist who kills himself for a femme fatale whom he
had chosen as a sitter for a painting he conceived. This is how Przybyszewsky describes
Mikita’s design for this fictional painting which the poor suicidee never came to realizing:

In the middle of the picture there will be a woman, a fascinating, lovely woman.
Thousands of hands will be stretching towards her from all sides: from above,
from below. Thousands of frenzied hands, quarrelling, shouting at each other.
Artists’ hands, thin and narrow; stock-jobbers’ hands, fat and fleshy, with rings

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Fig. 7

268 Yuri Tsivian

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on the fingers, thousands of different hands, orgies and orgies of lascivious
greedy hands. 6

If after hearing this passage someone still has doubts whether it relates to Munch’s picture,
these should be dissipated by the following lines from Przybyszewsky’s letter to Edvard
Munch of July 1 896 concerning a Swedish critic’s suggestion that Munch could have served
as prototype for the figure of Mikita:

Regarding this ludicrous nonsense they told you that I depicted you [in my nov-
el], I do not want as much as discuss it. Such talk is stupid and childish. Oh those
Swedes, those Swedes, aren’t they an uncouth race [wstretna rasa]! ’ 7

My next argument in favour of the specific interest in fine arts-related compositions on the
part of the teens’ filmmakers is shooting into mirrors. This predominantly European craze
has been discussed recently by Kristin Thompson, John Fullerton, and in an article of mine, 8
so let me mention only a few examples supporting my point about the European cinema of
the teens, struggling to change the identity of the film medium, part of this strategy being to
suggest that the space of the screen is more like that of the artist’s canvas than that of the
stage. Take, for example, the mirrors positioned frontally vis-a-vis the viewer. With a few
exceptions, such frontally positioned mirrors came into regular use around 1911, which
roughly coincides with the period when film designers in Europe became increasingly de-
termined to give up theatrical conventions of interior space in favour of those used by realist
paintings. This change involved a different conception of ‘backspace’ (or the imaginary
space positioned ‘behind’ the viewer inscribed in the diegetic space): instead of ignoring it
(as was customary on stage), film people were now determined to bring it in, activate it,
make it visible (as was customary in realist paintings). In live theatre, there was little sense
in positioning mirrors so that they face the audience: the risk of frontal mirrors incidentally
reflecting footlights, or space behind the scenes, or the audience itself was higher than what-
ever effects could be gained from them: because of the multiple spectators’ viewpoints scat-
tered in the auditorium, reflections were impossible to position with precision. Sometimes,
blind mirrors would be used on stage. One rare example of a blind mirror used on a film set
occurs in Emile Coutard’s the street arab of Paris, made by Eclair in 1910 (Fig. 6), but
because this was a film version of a stage melodrama (with stage actors in principal roles),
it may happen that the blind mirror was borrowed from its stage production as well.

Generally, it looks as if, because of their restricted use on stage, filmmakers of
the teens seized the opportunity to appropriate real mirrors. Precisely by using them in ways
that could not be deployed on stage, directors made mirrors send a message to the viewer:
‘This is film, not a stage.’ Typically, a reflected fragment of the space ‘behind the viewer’
would appear in these cinematic mirrors, in order to inscribe the viewer into the space of
action, imbue him with the same sense of ‘being there’ as painters were used to doing. To
make the reflective space more functional or even dramatic, an off-screen door would often

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appear reflected in this cinematic mirror, motivating exits and entrances past the camera
(another element impossible on stage). Evidently, such use of doors-within-the-mirrors was
clearly non-theatrical and innovative in relation to earlier modes of filmmaking, when doors
were made either in lateral walls or in the front wall opposite the camera (or both) - a ready-
made solution borrowed from theatre stage design as in the Russian film kretchinski’s
wedding from 1908 (Fig. 7). The dramatic possibilities opened by this door-in-the-mirror
alliance, too, were difficult to imagine on stage. Let me give some examples from Danish
and Italian productions of the early teens. Tn the Danish Film by August Blorn ved faeng-
lets port (191 1 ), the main space of action is shown from an angle (Fig. 8), and the door in
the mirror is carefully cued by entrances and exits (Fig. 9), till it finally pays off dramatical-
ly: the protagonist steals his mother's money from a drawer, and as the mother enters at just
this point (Fig. 10), thanks to the angled mirror, we see her seeing him without him seeing
her, an excellent example of narrative economy and narrational skill. To us, raised on dy-
namic conceptions of cinematic space whereby heightened dramatic effects are associated
with the increase in scene dissections, such shots may appear rather uncinematic, even the-
atrical. However, from the point of view of the teens, shooting into mirrors must have
looked perfectly film-specific, if only for the reason that none of these mirror effects could
be produced on stage.

The same can be observed about blocking. The inventiveness and precision with
which some filmmakers of the teens grouped and moved human figures in space shows how
excited they must have been about the new expressive possibilities opened for blocking
within the medium of cinema. Two examples from Bauer’s and Hofer’s films illustrate their
use of blocking in what in the teens looked like specifically cinematic ways. Franz Hofer’s
die schwarze kugel (‘The Black Ball, or. The Mysterious Sisters,’ 1913) is a story of two
sisters - music hall jugglers taking vengeance on the seducer of the third sister who is
already dead when the film begins. From the start, we are left with two mysterious sisters,
perhaps twins (despite the fact that one of them is blonde, and the other black-haired), who
take advantage of their family likeness to almost drive the villain mad. The very story is thus
grounded in symmetry, and part of the reason why the film is visually compelling is that
Hofer converts the story symmetry into the symmetry of space. Each time the two sisters are
seen together in the shot, they are symmetrically positioned with respect to the centre of the
frame; this symmetry is strictly lateral (rather than staged in depth); Hofer reinforces it by way
of making the two sisters mirror each other’s gestures and wear (always!) identical costumes
which both actresses change from scene to scene as if to refresh this sense of symmetry.

Take the following series of shots from the opening sequence of die schwarze
kugel. After the suicide letter appears on the screen as an insert, we see the two sisters
reading it; they are sitting side by side (framing: ‘American foreground’), facing the camera;
each sister holds the letter with one hand, the one on the left from us with her right hand, the
one on the right with her left hand. The letter is positioned exactly in the middle of the frame
(a bit below its geometrical centre), right on the axis of symmetry formed by the sisters’

270 Yuri Tsivian

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Fig. 9

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figures. Almost immediately the sisters are told to react, and looking at their carefully syn-
chronized movement one can almost hear Hofer’s off-screen voice prompting: ‘Look at each
other in mute amazement - now drop the letter - put your hands to your foreheads and pause
in grief.’ All this is performed with the exactitude and symmetry of a mirror gag in a Max
Linder movie, except of course that the scene does not look funny. This remarkable shot cues
symmetry as a leitmotif of the whole film, both visually and in terms of narrative: visually,
the synchrony and symmetry of acting will pay off when we see the mysterious sisters as
music hall jugglers perform a double tum; the narrative pay-off comes later when Hofer
makes us realize (slowly!) the perfectly timed revenge plot (based, of course, on confused
identities) devised in order to juggle the villain into confessing the crime of seduction.

In the next shot the symmetry is reinforced by showing Edith and Voletta mourning at
something looking like a family altar: first, we see them, their backs turned to the camera
(‘American foreground’ again), looking at the suicide’s photograph positioned, predictably,
in the middle of the frame, a trifle above its exact geometrical centre; com positionally, the
shot is so faithful to the one previous to it that, were it not for an intertitle between them,
they would form an exact graphic match. Needless to say, as the sisters look at each other
and join hands in an oath of revenge, they move perfectly in synch.

Another intertitle, another ‘American foreground,’ and a new exercise in symmetry: the
sisters are shown sitting facing the camera in the dressing room of a music hall (the shot is
tinted in ominous red); slowly, they put black masks over their eyes. Suddenly, their heads
tum back abruptly (both heads are turned inwards to the frame, in keeping with the law of
symmetry), and we see the manager coming in through the door behind, positioned exactly
in the middle of the frame, between the two sisters. The plot is triggered. The sisters are
summoned to the stage.

The next scene takes place in the auditorium of the vaudeville theatre. The unsuspecting
villain and his boyfriend are ushered into the box, and the show begins (Fig. 1 1), Here the
symmetry is quadrupled: not only does Hofer position the villain and his friend symmetri-
cally in relation to the stage they are looking at (compositionally, this shot repeats the one
with the sisters mourning at the family altar), but also locates the actresses on a swing (not
our sisters yet) so that their figures form a symmetry in relation to the tiny figure of the
conductor (whose head, like those of the villains, is turned with its back to us). Look again
at the frame enlargement: despite the fact that the whole composition is slightly off-centre
(obviously, the result of misframing on the part of the photographer), you feel that the head
of the conductor coincides with the geometrical centre of the frame. Draw an imaginary line
combining the two figures in the foreground, the two figures in the background, and the
conductor’s head in the centre, and you will get an X-shaped composition, a classical figure
of central quadruple symmetry. An amazing shot, indeed!

As Hofer cuts in closer to the stage, the number of actors doubles, indicating, perhaps,
that the director-in-fabula who had staged the show was as obsessed with symmetry as
Hofer himself (Fig. 12). Finally, the mysterious sisters come out on the stage and engage in

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a symmetrically choreographed double act which culminates in a conjugate juggling turn
with burning torches. Then, without any re-establishing shots (at least, no such shots survive
in the Nederlands Filmmuseum print) to mediate the transition, we jump into another exqui-
site specimen of quadruple symmetry: the juggling sisters are shown through the symmetri-
cal binoculars of the seducer (Fig. 1 3). Framed! - but, in reality, who has framed whom? A
model case of narrative economy and narrative ambiguity.

Clearly, this is a pictorialist strategy even though the juggling act and the tableau
vivant with the swings in the previous shot are part of a variety show. Lateral symmetry
flattens space - and so does the technique of foreground framing: here the space of action is
sandwiched between the frontal background and the foreground mask. Later in the film
Hofer will shoot a scene through a glazed door (Fig. 14), Contrary to the opera glass vi-
gnette, this foreground frame is not used as an indicator of a character’s point of view;
rather, it is purely ornamental and probably meant to situate the picture within the context of
the fine arts (I recall having seen a similar grated foreground in a painting by Gustave Cail-
lebotte) and in pictorialist photography. Yevgenii Bauer had his favourite glazed door, too
(Fig. 15), which he must have spotted somewhere in Moscow around 1914, since he used it
in at least three of the films he shot that year.

Dissimilar as they may look in terms of architectural design, in the context of
cinematic style Bauer’s door seconds Hofer’s, in the same sense that minors in Italian cinema
duplicated those found in Danish films: both Hofer and Bauer responded to the general ten-
dency of European films of the teens to make filmic space look different from the space of live
theatre and, in doing so, sought for alternative aesthetic alliances in the area of fine arts. In the
history of the film medium’s ‘struggle for autonomy’ the teens were thus the period when
independence did not mean being self-sufficient, but signalled the search for a better sovereign
among the established arts than the theatre or the stage crafts generally. This does not imply
that Bauer’s films have a similar look to Hofer’s. On the contrary, within the current of picto-
rialism common to both, Bauer’s method of negotiating space seems almost the opposite to
that of Hofer. Not only the lateral symmetry of die schwarze kugel, but also the density of
objects (props, figures) found in every frame (even more remarkably and consciously ex-
plored in weihnachtsglocken, 1914) makes Hofer’s shots look compressed, depthless, al-
most spaceless.

Bauer’s shots are different: in contrast to Hofer, he prefers to expand rather than
compress, and he favours empty spaces over densely packed images. To illustrate this differ-
ence in approach to space, let us look at Bauer’s a life for a life (1916), yet another story
about two sisters, in Bauer’s film the sisters get married on the same day, each to the wrong
man: Musia marries the man loved by Nata, and Nata marries the man she hates, in order to
spite the man she loves. So, in its own way, this, too, is a drama of family symmetries, and
it seems that Bauer, like Hofer, in die schwarze kugel, felt tempted to visualise the idea.
However, only once did he attempt translating the symmetry of narrative situation into the
type of symmetry dominant in die schwarze kugel, in a shot that comes after the intertitle

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‘The Double Wedding’ (Fig. 16), The sisters are positioned on both sides of their mother,
with their respective fiances flanking the happy group. On the whole, however, lateral (or
axial) symmetry is not typical for Bauer’s film: more often, one finds symmetrical arrange-
ment along diagonal lines, as in the scene where two more or less identical desk busts (one
looking off frame - either by negligence or for some compositional reason) duplicate the
main diagonal formed by the figures of Nata and her unloved husband (Fig. 17), Another
shot taken from the same camera setup but somewhat ‘longer’ with regard to its framing
(this time both busts are looking inwards), explores the opposite diagonal, formed by the
dejected husband talking to his mother-in-law, Musia and her husband in the middle, and
the lonesome Nata at the foremost point of the axis (Fig. 1 8). According to the contemporary
doctrine of stage directions stemming from the times of Francois Delsarte, the side-to-side
dimension of the stage expresses volition, movements directly toward or directly away from
the audience signify passion and (again, according to Delsarte) diagonals, because arrived
at by the opposition of two directions, have an element of conflict in them. 9

To us, all this may look fairly theatrical, but I suspect that things looked differ-
ently from the perspective of the teens. Refining the geometry of pro-filmic space to the
extent that Hofer and Bauer did for their films would be hardly worth the trouble unless the
results were secured by the fixed point of view thanks to which every overlapping and every
compositional detail could be balanced with utmost care, the facility all the more alluring
for film directors because it was not provided on the stage. In a sense, what filmmakers of
the teens were trying to achieve through staging and composition can be seen as an attempt
to out-theatre theatre. Why was it possible? On the one hand, for a number of reasons (the
lack of spoken text, for example, due to which blocking had to purvey a good deal of narra-
tive information), silent film was more dependent on blocking than a theatre performance.
On the other hand, the medium of cinema provided more favourable conditions for blocking
to become a flexible tool of expressivity than stage, where the position occupied by an actor
at any given moment was dictated, besides other factors, by considerations of optimal audi-
bility. In other words, for the cinema of the teens, high precision blocking was an article of
both necessity and pride, as clear a token of the film medium as montage would become for
the next decade. Shooting into mirrors, building ‘human diagonals,’ or compressing space to
the degree that all the objects filling the frame appear to be on the same plane (the method
perfected by Hofer, probably influenced by Art Nouveau painting): such techniques in the
teens must have looked as state-of-the-art and medium-specific as, say, digital special ef-
fects today.

To conclude: although we often define good films as those that are ‘true to the
nature of the medium,’ this by itself is an arbitrary doxa inherited from the aesthetic prefer-
ences coined in the twenties. But even if we agree to accept this as an axiom of historical
criticism, we must be wary not to extend ‘the nature of the medium’ as understood in the
twenties to what was felt to be ‘the nature of the medium’ in the teens, particularly in Euro-
pean films. As film historians know only too well, value judgements just do not stretch all

274 Yuri Tsivian

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Fig. n

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Fig. 12

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Fig. 13

275

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that far and have a short shelf-life. If we look back at Bauer’s or Hofer’s films through the
imaginary prism of what, say, early Eisenstein would think about them, we probably per-
ceive them as being very' theatrical; however, in Eisenstein’s later theory there exists a term
that helps to highlight the medium-specific quality of Bauer, Hofer, Caserini, Maurice
Tourneur and other pioneers of cinematic staging of the teens. The term is ‘mise-en-cadre’
as opposed to l mise-en-scene,’ the aim of which distinction is to emphasize that staging
and blocking of characters is itself a cinematic technique par excellence. Each historic
period, as Leopold Ranke used to say, has its own direct access to God - in this case, to the
‘true nature’ of cinema.

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rig. 10

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Fig, 18

276 Yuri Tsivian

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The Voyeur at Wilhelm’s Court;
Franz Hofer

Elena Dagrada

If it is true that the Giornate del cinema muto at Pordenone often give their audience the joy
of discovering an unrecognized talent, then 1990 honored the tradition with a new, discreet-
ly presented gift. After Yevgenii Bauer, the ‘little big genius’ of Russian cinematography
which Pordenone ‘discovered’ the year before, another unrecognized director has taken up
his rightful place in the early cinema's pantheon: Franz Hofer, six of whose films were
shown at Pordenone, in the retrospective dedicated to the German cinema before caligari.

Bom in Germany but educated in Vienna, little or nothing seems to be known
about Hofer. A catalogue entry for the Pordenone event 1 says that he had a passion for the
theatre, where he worked as both author and actor, and that he was a scriptwriter from 1910
onwards, who in 1913 directed his first film, des alters erste spuren. Between 1913 and
1914, before World War I, he shot about 25 films for Luna Film GmbH. In the years that
followed, he passed to different production companies, among which Messter Film GmbH,
before venturing himself into production, founding Hofer Film GmbH, 2 which was active
after the war.

It is also known that, to judge by the titles of his films, he practised different
genres and that the actors he liked to work with, notably Dorrit Weixler and Franz
Schwaiger, were well-known stars. Finally, we know that in 1913 he took part in one of the
many public initiatives designed to promote the social status of the film director, in the
context of what has come to be known as the Autorenfilm movement. His name in fact
figures next to directors like Stellan Rye (DER student von prag), among others, in an
advertisement featured in a special issue of Die Lichtbild-Buhne entirely dedicated to the
role of the film director. 3

If the biographical information on Hofer is, at this point, still meagre, the same is
fortunately not true about his art: after seeing some of the films that have survived, mostly
belonging to the period of Luna Film, a precise shaft of light has now fallen on Franz Hofer,
opening up rather like one of those peepholes through which the characters of his numerous
and beautiful point-of-view shots like to gaze. Because - let’s say it right away - it is this
that strikes one most forcefully in Hofer: the fascinating but never gratuitous virtuosity with
which he constructs the visual space of his characters, depicting their perception within
elegant geometrical coordinates. And equally striking is the equilibrium that in these point-
of-view shots is achieved between visual fascination and narrative pertinence, between oc-
ular magic and story sense.

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Hofer always tells of a world seen by an intimate point-of-view, as if standing
above things. A point-of-view more often ‘of a feminine kind,’ as Heide Schlupmann has
pointed out. In contrast to the Russian Bauer (more stereoscopic), Hofer is a creator of
monoscopic visions and knows how to enrich even the most commonplace intrigues with
the depth of an individualized psychological dimension. But, again in contrast with Bauer,
who is interested in organizing space in architectonic ways, Hofer seems more interested in
the composition of the frame, more in filling in the space than in designing it in determined
ways. In Hofer’s films the camera movements are rare. Often the frames are static, pictorial.
And yet, the Figurative care with which they are conceived is profoundly cinematographic:
their elegance derives from conscious visual arrangements, well-timed optical effects,
scenographic point-of-view shots and apparitions bodying forth in discreetly, but delibe-
rately arranged large black spaces.

Hofer seems to place himself perfectly half-way between the spectacle-attrac-
tion tradition of pre-cinema and the linearizing and narrative innovations brought into the
German cinema of the teens with the Autorenfilm movement. If it is in fact true that the
German cinema before caligari owes to the Autorenfilm an active process of breaking with
the theatrical heritage and the involvement with the expressive components specific to cin-
ema, 4 then the films of Hofer seem to testify to the reality of this positive influence. From
one side, in fact, they are ‘quality’ productions, which enrich the market with new 7 genres
and proliferate the expressive means typical of the new film language. From the other side,
however, they preserve between the lines the nostalgia for the theatre and the fascination of
cinema still lived as magic, as the first bewilderment experienced in the face of these lumi-
nous images in motion.

It is also thanks to the mixing of these components that the films of Hofer, inde-
pendent of the genre they belong to, appear somehow' with an undercurrent of profound
lyricism, whether it is a Sensationsfilm (the ‘sensational’ film) with its crime story back-
ground (like die schwarze natter and die schwarze kugel), a witty comedy (hurrah 1
etnquartierung! and fraulein piccolo), a Heimatfrontfilm (like the marvellous weih-
nachtsglocken), or - more naturally - a melodrama (like kammermusik). Often, it is
exactly the gaze of the characters, through numerous point-of-view' shots, that carries the
transfer of the lyrical impact from the figurative level to the emotional and narrative one,
even when the atmosphere is choral or multi-voiced, as in weihnachtsglocken, or when
it is concentrated on the action, as in the Sensationsfilm. Into the center of this last genre, for
instance, Hofer pushes ’the feminine pow-er and the power of the feminine gaze.’ 15 In die
schwarze natter (Luna Film, 1913) the protagonists are two women who fight for the
same man: Ladya, the viper woman (or the black viper, the schwarze Natter of the title) and
enchantress of snakes; and Blanche d’Estree, amazone and proprietress of the circus where
the story is set.

The plot in itself is little more than a gloomy amorous intrigue, staged half-way
between a melodrama and a detective story. Hofer proceeds adroitly here, displaying great

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care for details (in the clothes of the two women, for instance, to indicate their different
personalities) and a rather dynamic use of space: the pursuit and the escape of Blanche by
the police leads the camera through an arena, onto rooftops, through the booths and among
the merry-go-rounds of a Luna Park. But the perspective of the characters also leads to some
remarkable visual strokes of genius: we are taken through holes in the wall, see a mirror
hidden in a hat (which in the final scene the evil Ladya will smash, with suggestive sceno-
graphic effect, for the terror of seeing reflected in it the image of the good Blanche) and we
are even merging with the form of a hand that has melted down the ice on a windowpane.

In niE schwarze kugel (Luna Film, 1913), too, the protagonists are two wom-
en. They decide to avenge their sister, who committed suicide out of love, by killing the
seducer who had jilted her. Another Sensationsfilm in short, set this time in the world of the
theatre. And another torrid intrigue, where two sisters, instead of fighting for the same man,
become allies in order to combat him. Again, however, Hofer does not limit himself to
burdening the plot with the treatment of tormented souls. What interests him above all is to
entrust the task of expressing the sentiments of these souls in the composition of the frames,
here invariably very theatrical.

The still vivid ties of Hofer to the theatre, in fact, can be felt in this film more
than in most of the others. 6 Not only in the recurring motif (perhaps a little obvious) of the
theatre chosen as preferred action space, or by the curtains doubling as theatre curtain (for
instance, at the end, in the castle of the count, when like a bolt from the blue, the murderous
sister appears in front of her victim lifting a heavy velvet curtain that suddenly opens up). It
can be noticed especially in the use of the space of the action as a stage, as a three-dimen-
sional place observed in silence through an invisible fourth wall. But careful: we are dealing
with a theatre within cinema, where emblematic spectators point out with their fingers de-
tails in the titles of the printed programme (as they do at the beginning of the film). And the
silent gaze that observes the events through the fourth wall reveals itself often as a diegetic
gaze. A trapped gaze, as if peering through the keyhole.

The gaze here belongs to the man, a seductive and voyeurist count. Morbidly
attracted to the feminine world, he spies upon the sisters both in private (their house, their
room adorned with lace and flowers) and at their workplace, the theatre (in the dressing
room and on the stage). It concerns a rather intimate theatre, the sort customarily frequented
by seducers. The two women perform an act entitled ‘Die geheimnisvollen Schwestem’
{‘The mysterious sisters’: the title of the act serves as subtitle of Hofer ’s film) in which they
show themselves masked in black, and covered in large cloaks that they swirl around them
like ominous dark wings, Then there is a sudden cut, however, followed immediately by the
same image of the cloaked sisters, now encircled by a matte with a double lens. It is the gaze
of the voyeur, in the auditorium, who observes the spectacle through a pair of binoculars.
When the same pair of binoculars are directed towards the stage, we see him aim at them,
from a balcony, in the following shot.

This is not the only ‘theatrical’ point-of-view shot in the film: others follow,

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DIE SCHWARZE
NATTER (1 9 13)

through mattes similar to picture frames, by the arched windows of the castle. But the most
beautiful - and also the most erotic must surely be the one where the man steals the
intimacy of the two women, on the stage of the action. The two sisters are at home and
moving about in their room; they first attentively close the window’s outer shutters, then
lower a white curtain, stretched taut like a screen. Cut to the outside, where the count arrives
and approaches the window. Carefully, he prizes apart the slats of the shutters, leans forward
to spy through the opening, only to be once more frustrated in his desire to look: the white
curtain blocks his gaze. He opens the shutters completely, revealing the stylized profiles of
the two sisters projected against the white of the curtain, two-dimensional like an ancient
shadow play. The count, taking a pair of scissors from his waistcoat, makes a slight incision
in the cloth in order to open a passage for his gaze. Cut to a triangle framing a black back-
ground simulating the gash opened by the count in the curtain cloth; beyond it, the two
sisters go about their business, unaware of being observed. Later on, when a reverse shot
shows us the room once more from the inside, in the background of the frame, one distinctly
recognizes the dark stain of the hole in the white curtain.

This fascinating mixture of old and new, here uniting the traditional magic of the
shadow-play with its modem use in an expressive as well as narrative context, seems to find
in the representation of the gaze its most fertile territory. The point-of-view shot, in Hofer,
consents to presenting the viewer with visual and scenographic effects that are striking
above all for their immediate beauty. Yet at the same time, they are always used to perfectly
mesh with the story. Recall the final point-of-view shot of die schwarze natter, when
Ladya discovers the figure of Blanche reflected in the hidden mirror: highlighting an object
of an undeniable visual fascination, the point-of-view shot here nevertheless unites itself
with its other use, modem and specifically cinematic: the exchange of glances between
characters, used here to unblock the course of the plot with a miraculous stage effect.

280 Elena Dagrada

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WEIHNACHTSGLOCKEN ( 1914 )

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In Hofer’s point-of-view shots, very often the look into the camera relies on the
- cinematically speaking - somewhat backward technique of ‘direct address.’ The charac-
ters indulge in it, squandering themselves in grins and bows towards the camera as if ac-
knowledging the audience in the auditorium (of the theatre). But this always concerns char
acters solidly ‘chaperoned’ by other persons, who on screen fully perform their dramatic

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role of the (cinematographic) emblematical audience. One thinks of the ending of the com-
edy hurrah! einquartierung! (Luna Film, 1913), where all kinds of virtuosities of the
look as pure attraction are very much in evidence (bubbles that reflect the faces of the cha-
racters in close up, heart-shaped masks, etc.). This is a deliciously impertinent final scene,
in which the two lovers, discovered making love behind a curtain (the umpteenth simu-
lacrum of a theatre curtain), hide behind a paravent screen to kiss each other in order not to
be seen even by the camera.

A similarly ambiguous final scene recurs in weihnachtsglocken (Luna Film,
1914). Two lovers kiss each other in the dark; in the background, behind a large glass door
lit up from behind, some characters approach, slide the door open, and drive the two young
people out of their hideaway.(see illustr., p. 10). A rapid reverse shot then shows the couple
framed through an oval mask, which after a slight bow towards the camera catches a curtain
on both sides of the frame (just like the one under which the voyeurist photographer in the
big swallow is hiding) and subtract themselves from our indiscreet gaze.

weihnachtsglocken is a small masterpiece, and undoubtedly the most origi-
nal and complete of Hofer’s still extant films. It has the additional advantage of offering a
delicate portrait of the prewar German bourgeoisie, so prominent in the literature of that
period. The main title is followed by a significant subtitle that reads: HEIMGEKEHRT. eine
kriegsgeschichte. Significant, because this truly extraordinary film is really a Kriegsge-
schichte, a ‘war story,’ but it tells about the war without showing it. Or better, by showing it
(for once) from another angle. From the opposite angle. The perspective of those who
stayed at home and patiently await the mail, the leave, the return of those who went away to
fight. 7 It’s Christmas day during the Great War. But instead of battlefields, uniforms, trench-
es, mud and dust, we see padded and illuminated bourgeois interiors, inhabited by elegantly
dressed women and children, or aged parents anxious for their sons at the front. Everything
is measured on the level of sentiments. There is no trace of material discomfort; the Christ-
mas preparations go ahead without privations, amidst the muted joy of anticipation aroused
by the announcement of the soldiers’ being granted leave. People even find time to fall in
love and to get engaged. The only image of the front is an imaginary one, produced by the
fantasy of the parents of a young soldier: it appears in superimposition on the right half of
the screen (while the parents complete the frame at the left side) and shows a group of
soldiers in uniform. But not even here do violence and brutality flourish. The soldiers are in
cheerful and carefree mood, wanning themselves by an open fire. Just as carefree is the
(mental) image of a young soldier on leave evoked by his new beloved, without a trace of
the grief about the next and inevitable separation, the fear of moving on, or even loss (see
illustr., p. 11).

In short, there is something noble and gentleman-like in this distanced view on
the war. Something that has to do with the same noble and gentleman-like view that per-
vades la grande illusion (1937) by Jean Renoir. It represents the domestic version of
war, the feminine version. Here the familiar-family sentiment stands above all other things.

282 Elena Dagrada

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the aristocracy of affection, of the amorous and domestic sensibility. Christmas dinner is
being served in the living room. The children spy on the occasion through a large glass door
(the same in the final scene) which is suddenly lit by a yellow light and becomes the screen
for a new theatre of shadow-plays. Brighter are the shadows beyond the door that adorn the
tree; darker are the shadows of the children in front. The frame is beautiful, of great compo-
sitional delicacy. Again it unites the old visual fascination of moving shadows with a wise
and modem use of the definition of depth. A refined photography raises the clair-obscur and
gives the same representation of the movement a fascinatingly stylized cadenza. Hofer
knows this and indulges in it. The finely etched figures of the children seem at one and the
same time to comply with a geometric and a lyric taste: they are a visual attraction, while
still inhabiting the very essence of the world of the film.

The same thing happens in the flashbacks and the mental visions of the last film
Hofer realized for Luna Film: kammermusik (shot in 1914, but released not before March
1915). Here the plot does not present the thematic originality of weihnachtsglocken, but
possesses the same lyricism. Its mise-en- scene is so full of narrative originality, so strong in
its composition that the results are no less interesting or successful. From a thematic point-
of-view, kammermusik is, on the face of it, merely a patchwork of melodramatic situations,
typical of the most decadent romanticism: it is the unhappy story of a woman who sacrifices
her youth and her entire life by marrying a sick inan who leaves her a widow when still in
childbed. Yet it is told with remarkable inventiveness and the use of extremely modem nar-
ative techniques. It begins with the protagonist as an old woman, who feels her end is nigh
and who decides to tell the story of her life to the young daughter-in-law. The point of
departure is a small box containing tokens of memories; every memory is materialized by a
flashback and is tied to the following one by the image of the two women and the little box.
At the end, the story is interrupted by the arrival of the son, now a musician, who returns
home after a triumphal concert. The mother receives the message with joy, because she is
now granted one last wish before dying: to hear her son play her favorite piece of music (a
chorale by Bach). This happens in the final scene, at a subsequent concert, during which,
one after the other, the crucial moments of her existence pass before her mind’s eye as she
passes away. The final shot is composed (or we should rather say, filled in) in an extraordi-
nary' way. Because it concerns only one frame: a frame that knows to unite statics and dy-
namics with extreme naturalness. The old woman is seated in an easy chair, the daughter-in-
law is present at her side, and the bodies of the two women accurately fill out the left part of
the frame; on the other half, the memories evoked during the film in flashback (which the
spectator recognizes and relives just as so many attractions) run in sequence, in rhythmic
cadence with the music.

Little is known about what Hofer did with this talent of his after World War I,
whether the grace by which he knew how to let magic and story live together in his films
stayed with him. What can no longer pass into oblivion is the trace he has left on the German
cinema of the early teens.

283 The Voyeur at Wilhelm's Court: Franz Hofer

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DIE SCHWARZE NATTER ( 1913 )

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284

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Notes

Preface

1. See Martin Loiperdinger, below.

2. Leon Hunt, ‘the student of Prague: Division and Codification of Space,’ in Thomas
Elsaesser (ed.). Early Cinema: Space, Frame, Narrative, London: BF1 Publishing,
1990, pp. 389-400.

3. As argued by Peter Lahn, below.

4. See Loiperdinger below for some of the reasons why early German cinema has become
a ‘lost continent.’

5. See also the title of the book edited for the occasion by Paolo Cherchi Usai and Lorenzo
Codelli, Prima di Caligari ! Before Caligari: German Cinema, 1895-1920 , Pordenone:
Edizioni Biblioteca deHTmagine, 1990.

6. Another Italian festival should be mentioned here, the ‘Cinema tedesco dalle origini al
Terzo Reich’ which under the direction of Vito Zagarrio and Riccardo Redi took place in
Pesaro in October 1993.

7. Leon Hunt’s essay mentioned in note 2, and John Fullerton ‘Spatial and Temporal Artic-
ulation in Pre-Classical Swedish Film,’ in Elsaesser (ed)„ Early Cinema , op, cit„ pp,
375-388.

8. Michael Wedel (ed.) German Cinema, 1895-191 7; A Checklist of Extant Films in Inter-
national Archives, University of Amsterdam, 1995, obtainable on request in electronic
form (MS-DOS diskette) from Amsterdam University Press,

Early German Cinema: A Second Life?

1. On some of the difficulties, both archival and conceptual, of researching the German
cinema between 1 895 and 1917, Thomas Elsaesser, ‘Early German Cinema: Audiences,
Style and Paradigms,’ Screen, vol. 33, no. 2, Summer 1992, p. 205-6.

2. Barry Salt in this volume.

3. One of the most assiduous historians to have combed through the print sources for early
German cinema is Herbert Birett (see bibliography).

4. Essays by these authors are to be found in Thomas Elsaesser (ed.). Early Cinema:
Space, Frame, Narrative, London: BFI Publishing, 1990.

5. David Bordwell, Janet Staiger, Kristin Thompson, Classical Hollywood Cinema: Film
Style and Mode of Production to I960 , London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1985.

6. For instance, the essays by Tilo Knops, Kimberly O’Quinn, Kristin Thompson, Barry

285 Notes

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Salt and Yuri Tsivian, below.

7. Hence the emphasis in the present volume on the film relations with Denmark (the es-
says by Evelyn Hampicke, Peter Lahn and Caspar Tybjerg), with France (Frank Kessler/
Sabine Lenk) and the United States (Deniz Goktiirk), not forgetting Rainer Rother’s
article on the ‘international’ and ‘comparative’ dimension of German propaganda films
during World War I.

8. Thomas Elsaesser, ‘The New Film History,’ Sight & Sound , vol, 55, no, 4, Autumn 1986,
pp. 246-251.

9. Robert C. Allen and Douglas Gomery, Film History: Theory and Practice , New York:
Alfred A, Knopf, 1985, p. 38.

10. ‘In Germany we have great factories for making cameras and projectors, and also for
producing first-rate film stock. But our country makes the worst films one can find
anywhere on the globe. Putting aside their lack of aesthetic sense and taste, German
films are distinguished by errors in focus, overexposure, fuzziness, unintentional shad-
ows, developing flaws and bad copies. Such are the details by which, after only a few
seconds, one can tell a German production.’ Wolf Szapel, Union Theater (house maga-
zine), 1912, quoted by G. Sadoul, Histoire generate du cinema , vol 2, Paris: Denoel,
1973, p. 361.

11. Emilie Altenloh, Zur Soziologie des Kino: Die Kinounternehmung und die sozialen
Schichten ihrer Besucher , Jena: Diederichs, 1914, gives an indication of how many
films in German cinemas were foreign imports.

12. Since 1990, there have been, among others, anniversary volumes for Ufa and Ba-
belsberg, for Reinhold Schiinzei, Joe May, Erich Pommer and E.A. Dupont, more than a
dozen regional studies, and of course, the publications associated with the centenary of
the cinema itself. For an indication of the manifold ways in which the regional dimen-
sion intersects with the international, see the essays by Frank Kessler and Sabine Lenk,
Evelyn Hampicke (Berlin/Denmark), Peter Lahn (Frankfurt/Denmark), Jan-Christo-
pher Horak (Munich-Berlin/France) and Deniz Goktiirk (Berlin/USA).

13. Heide Schliipmann. U nheimlichkeit des Slicks: Das Drama des friihen deutschen Ki-
nos , Frankfurt and Basel: Stroemfeld/Roter Stem, 1990.

14. Ibid., p. 97.

15. Tom Gunning, ‘The Cinema of Attractions: Early Film, its Spectator and the Avant-
garde,’ in Elsaesser (ed.), Early Cinema, op. cit., pp. 56-62.

16. Corinna Muller, Friihe deutsche Kinematographie : Formate, wirtschaftliche und kul-
turelle Entwicklungen 1907-1912, Stuttgart and Weimar: Metzler, 1994,

17. One valuable source of evidence for both the structure of a normal cinema programme
and the constitution of a typical audience comes perhaps from a somewhat unexpected
quarter: the Report of the Hamburg cinema commission of 1907, part of the reform
movement combatting the rise of the feature film (see note 35). For a book- length study
of the conditions of reception in the period in which the numbers principle dominated.

286 Notes

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see Yuri Tsivian, Early Cinema in Russia and its Cultural Reception , London:
Routledge, 1994,

18. Apart from the November opening programme, consisting of nine short sketches, in-
cluding a boxing kangaroo number, a view of the Copenhagen Tivoli Gardens, and a
direct address to the audience by his brother Emil, Skladanowsky put together a second
programme in 1896/97, mainly of Berlin city views which was successfully shown all
over Germany, though mostly on the (technically superior) Lumiere cinematographe.
The last time the cumbersome Bioskop machine was used was on 30 March 1897, the
day Max Skladanowsky ’s trading license expired.

19. Martin Loiperdinger, ‘Ludwig Stollwerck: Wie der Film nach Deutschland kam,’ KIN-
top 1, 1992, pp. 115-1 19 and ‘Ludwig Stollwerck, Birt Acres and the Distribution of the
Lumiere Cinematographe in Germany,’ in Roland Cosandey and Francis Albera (eds.).
Images Across Borders, 1896-1918, Internationality in World Cinema: Representations,
Markets, Influences and Reception , Lausanne/Quebec: Editions Payot/Nuit Blanche
Editeur, 1995, pp. 167-177.

20. Martin Loiperdinger and Roland Cosandey, ‘L’ introduction du Cinematographe en Al-
lemagne,’ Archives 51, Institut Jean Vigo, Nov, 1992, pp. 13-14,

21. Among a number of studies of the cinematograph in its first years, one particularly
detailed is Guido Convents, ‘L ! apparition du cinema en Belgique (1895-1918),’ in Les
Cahiers de la Cinemateque, Perpignan, no. 41, April 1984, pp, 12-26, See also the pa-
pers given at the ‘Hondert Jaar Film - het begin’ conference, University of Amsterdam,
March 22-23, 1996.

22. Messter was not the first to try out sound-on-disk synchronisation. Edison had devel-
oped the kinetoscope originally in order to ‘illustrate’ his phonographic cylinders, and
Gaumont had also patented a synchronized sound-film system. Since amplification and
sound reproduction remained poor, these efforts were abandoned as soon as cinemas
expanded their auditorium size. Why Messter persisted is not quite clear, but it may have
had to do with his inventor-bricoleur mentality, a mixture of the practical and the play-
ful.

23. See Martin Koerber, below.

24. This is one of the distinctions made by Noel Burch, in ‘A Paranthesis on Film History,’
in To the Distant Observer: Form and Meaning in Japanese Cinema, London: Scolar
Press, 1979, pp. 61-66.

25. The information comes from his autobiography Mein Weg mil dem Film, Berlin: Verlag
Max Hesse, 1936, but is also summarized in Friedrich v, Zglinicki, Der Weg des Films:
Die Geschichte der Kinemalographie und ihrer Vorldufer, Hildesheim: Olms, 1956.

26. Noel Burch, To the Distant Observer, op. cit., pp. 61-63,

27. As Jeanpaul Goergen shows in his essay below, a similar inventiveness in finding new
applications and exploring new markets for the cinema was revealed by Julius Pin-
schewer, the pioneer of the industrial advertisement film. See also Kimberly O’Quinn’s

287 Notes

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essay for the links between Kulturfilm , propagada and newsreel -documentary in
Messter.

28. An invaluable near-contemporary source for German variety is Signor Saltarino, Das
Artistentum und seine Geschichte , Leipzig: Willi Backhaus, 1910.

29. Martin Loiperdinger and Harald Pulch, der filmpionier oskar messter, Filmproduk-
tion Harald Pulch, 1995, 58 mins.

30. Jakob von Hoddis, ‘Der Kinematograph’ (1911), quoted in Ludwig Greve, Margot Peh-
le, Heidi Westhoff (eds.), Hatte ich das Kino! Die Schriftsteller und der Stummfilm,
Munich: Kdsel, 1976, p. 15.

31. Alfred Doblin, ‘Das Theater der kleinen Leute’ (1909), reprinted in Anton Kaes (ed.),
Kino-Debane : Texte zum Verhaltnis von Literatur und Film 1909-1929 , Tubingen/Mu-
nich: Niemeyer/dtv, 1978, p. 38.

32. Ibid, See Martin Loiperdinger's essay ‘The Kaiser’s. Cinema, 7 below.

33. Egon Friedell, ‘Prolog vor dem Film’ (1913), reprinted in Jorg Schweinitz, Prolog vor
dem Film: Nachdenken ubercin neites Medium 1909-1914 , Leipzig; Reclam, 1992, p.
204.

34. Victor Noack, ‘Der Kintopp,’ Die Aktion, no. 29, 17 July 1912, p. 907.

35. One of the best-known is the Hamburg report by C.H. Dannmeyer, Berichtder Kommis-
sionfiir ‘Lebende Photographien’ (1907), reprint, ed. Hans-Michael Bock, Hamburg:
Flaschner Druck, 1980.

36. Alfred Doblin, op. cit., pp. 37-8.

37. Ibid. See also Corinna Miiller’s argument about children as spectators in Friihe deutsche
Kinematographie, op. cit.

38. Altenloh’s argument is taken up by Heide Schlupmann, ‘Cinema as Anti-Theater: Ac-
tresses and Female Audiences in Wilhelmine Germany,’ Iris, no. 1 1 , Summer 1 990, pp.
77-93.

39. Georges Sadoul, op. cit., p. 365.

40. For information about early German production companies, see Michael Esser (ed,). In
Berlin Produziert: 24 Firmengeschichten , Berlin: Stiftung Deutsche Kinemathek, 1 987.

41. According to Thomas Saunders, in 1912/13 the native share of the market still reached
only 1 3 percent. See his Hollywood in Berlin: American Cinema and Weimar Germany,
Berkeley et ah: University of California Press, 1994.

42. Kristin Thompson, Exporting Entertainment: America in the World Film Market 1907-
1934, London: BFI Publishing, 1985, p. 37.

43. Hermann Wollenberg, Fifty Years of German Film, London: Falcon Press, 1948, p. 1 1,
but see also Sadoul, op. cit., p. 364, who attributes this calculation to the ‘pangermanist
lobby’ in the Black Forest, and thus as part of the anti-French propaganda war on the eve
of the 1914 ‘hot 1 war.

44. Enno Patalas et al. f Bilddokumente zur Geschichte des Films , Munich, n.d., vol. 1, pp.
12-15.

288 Notes

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45. Most historians (e.g. Jurgen Spiker, Film und Kapital, Berlin: Verlag Volker Spiess,
1975) have taken their figures front Altenloh, where perhaps not enough distinction is
made between different types of cinema theatres. But it is Corinna Muller who challeng-
es these assertions most decisively, providing the figures that lead to her quite different
argument, for in this question above all, the regional and local studies have shed new
light.

46. Sadou), op, cit., p. 361, and Dieter Prokop, Soziologie des Films, 2nd ed., Frankfurt:
Fischer Taschenbuchverlag, 1982.

47. For some of the desperate measures employed, see Karen Pehla, ‘Joe May und seine
Detektive,’ in Haos-Michael Bock and Claudia Lenssen (ed s,),Joe May: Regisseur und
Produzent, Munich: edition text & kritik, 1991, pp. 61-72.

48. On the Monopolfilm and its repercussions for both exhibition and production, see
Corinna Muller, Friihe deutsche Kinematographie, op. cit., esp. chapters 4 and 5.

49. ‘ [Asta Nielsen’s] coming characterized the break-through to art in German film produc-
tion, which so far had been entirely guided by the ever-growing business possibilities.
Today it seems almost grotesque to think that those forces which were aiming at the
artistic development of the film in Germany were at first opposed by difficulties almost
too great to overcome. These difficulties were caused by the lack of interest in the pop-
ular new entertainment-medium shown by the ruling classes, by educated and official
circles, who had so far completely overlooked its cultural and educational possibilities.’
H.H. Wollenberg, op. cit., p. 9.

50. Barry Salt, ‘The World Inside Lubitsch,’ first given as a paper at the ‘Space Frame Nar-
rative Conference’ at the University of East Anglia, 1983.

51. Salt has unearthed the operetta pretext and prototype for many of Lubitsch ’s most suc-
cessful films, from madame dubarry and die puppe, to the oyster princess and the
mountain cat. One should add that the sexual comedy of errors and substitutions, of
gender-bending cross-dressing are also conventionalized - and by their audiences much
prized - aspects of operetta subjects.

52. Ennio Simeon has made a suggestion along these lines in his essay ‘Music in German
cinema before 1918,’ in Cherchi Usai and Codelli (eds.). Before Caligari, op. cit., p. 80.

53. See Ivo Blom on the Messter-Desmet correspondence in ‘Filmvertrieb in Europa 1910-
1915: Jean Desmet und die Messter-Film GmbH,’ KINtop 3 , 1994, pp. 73-91, esp. pp.
83-4.

54. ‘It was the war which spawned an independent German cinema, partly because it pro-
vided existing producers with new opportunities, and more essentially because it finally
mobilized the financial forces required to sustain large-scale production. In the first
instance, declining output in France and Italy gave a crucial fillip to native production.
This was accompanied in 1915 by a ban on import of foreign (chiefly French, British
and Italian) films made since the outbreak of war. Then in February 1916 a comprehen-
sive ban was imposed as part of a general tightening of import/export regulations, leav-

289 Notes

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ing import permission to a federal commissioner.’ Saunders, op. cit., pp. 21-22.

55. Kimberly O ’Quinn, below, discusses Bill Uricchio’s argument in respect of the Kul-
turfilm and ‘Kinoreform,’

56. Tom Saunders has pointed out that ‘restriction of import provided a precondition but not
a guarantee for the ascendancy of domestic producers.’ Saunders explains: ‘By 1916
German films outnumbered imports by somewhat less than 2:1. Admittedly, this ratio
concealed anomalies. Chief of these was the fact that the foremost “German” producer
was still a foreign company. The Danish concern, Nordisk, largely filled the void left by
the French and Americans and enjoyed a commanding position on the German market.
Nordisk not only distributed in Germany but had its own production facilities and
owned the largest chain of German theatres. So powerful was its position that it gained
exemption from the import ban.’ Saunders, Hollywood in Berlin , op. cit., pp. 21-22. See
also Hampicke, below.

57. Kristin Thompson, Exporting Entertainment, op. cit., pp. 104-1 1 1.

58. For formal analyses of Scandinavian Films, see John Fullerton’s and Kristin Thomp-
son's contributions in Karel Dibbets and Bert Hogenkamp (eds.). Film and the First
World War, Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 1995, as well as the examples
cited by Yuri Tsivian, below.

59. The fact that zweimal gei.ebt, by all accounts, was censored and never publicly shown
adds a further leve l of irony both to the film title and my emblematic use of it as the book
title.

60. For a convenient account of ‘apparatus theory,’ see Phil Rosen, (ed.). Narrative, Appara-
tus, Ideology, New York: Columbia University Press, 1986.

61 . Charles Musser, The Emergence of Cinema: The American Screen to 1907, New' York:
Scribner, 1 990, ch. 1 .

62. The honours of having ‘rediscovered’ Franz Hofer in Germany are shared by Heide
SchlUpmann (‘The Sinister Gaze: Three Films by Franz Hofer from 1913,’ in Cherchi
Usai and Codelli [eds.]. Before Caligari, op. cit., pp. 452-473) and Fritz Guttinger
(‘Franz Hofer: Ausgrabung des Jahres?’ In Kdpfen Sie mal ein Ei in Zeitlupe ! Streifziige
durch die Welt des Stummfilms , Zurich: NZZ Verlag, 1992, pp. 215-226).

63. richard wagner was made to coincide with the composer’s centenary. The project
gained wide publicity because of a well-known figure of Berlin musical life, Giuseppe
Becce, played the lead. Notoriety was added by the outrageous financial demands made
for the music rights by the Bayreuth Wagner estate, which necessitated that the film be
performed with a Wagner-ish score. For a fuller discussion of the music in richard
wagner, see Ennio Simeon, below.

64. As to the reaction of the critics, see Julius Hart, ‘Der Atlantis Film,’ De/ Tag, 24 Decem-
ber 1913. Reprinted in Fritz Guttinger (ed.), Kein Tag ohne Kino: Die Schriftsteller uher
den Stummfilm, Frankfurt: Deutsches Filmmuseum, 1984, pp. 292ff. My thanks to Mar-
tin Loiperdinger for drawing attention to this passage.

290 Notes

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65. The references to its popularity - over 1 50 copies sold and one of the rare German export
successes of the time - are in George Sadoul, op. cit., p, 368.

66. die kinder des majors maintains a very complex distribution of knowledge among the
character at the same time as it elaborates an involuted temporal structure, again indica-
tive of the efforts made to involve the spectator in an ‘inner’ drama, as opposed to em-
ploying what Noel Burch has called ‘external narration’ and Andre Gaudreault has de-
fined as ‘monstration. 5

67. The situation of the heroine is more convoluted still: one not only imagines the silent cry
of Henny Porten on the organ loft, before she collapses, but actually ‘hears’ it, thanks to
the prominence of huge organ pipes framing her tormented look.

The Kaiser’s Cinema:

An Archeology of Attitudes and Audiences

1. See in this context, Thomas Elsaesser, ‘Early Cinema: From Linear History to Mass
Media Archeology’ in Early Cinema: Frame Space Narrative , London: BFI Publishing,
1990, pp, 1-10,

2. Heinrich Fraenkel, Unsterblicher Film. Die gross e Chronik: Von der Laterna Magica bis
zum Tonfilm, Munich: Kindler, 1956,

3. Siegfried Kracauer, From Caligari to Hitler: A Psychological History of the German
Film, Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1947, p. 16.

4. Dieter Prokop, Soziologie des Films , Opladen: Luchterhand, 1970, p. 33.

5. Anton Kaes, ‘Mass Culture and Modernity: Notes Toward a Social History of Early
American and German Cinema,’ in Frank Trommler / Joseph McVeigh (eds.), America
and the Germans: An Assessment of a Three-HundredYear History, vol. 2, Philadelphia:
University of Penns il vania Press, 1985, p. 320.

6. Emilie Altenloh, Zur Soziologie des Kino: Die Kinounternehmung und die sozialen
Schichten ihrer Besucher, Jena: Diederichs, 1914.

7. See Jurgen Kinter, Arbeiterbewegung und Film ( 1895-1933 ): Fin Beitrag zur Geschichte
der Arbeiter- und Alltagskultur und der gewerkschaftlichen und sozialdemokratischen
Kultur- und Medienarbeit , Hamburg: Medienpadagogik Zentrum, 1985.

8. Cf. Altenloh, Zur Soziologie des Kino , op. cit., p. 78: ‘While the men are at an election
meeting, the women go to the picture palace next door, and after the performance they
collect their men. In the course of time, this stopgap measure turned into a significant
part of their existence. Little by little they were seized by real enthusiasm for it, and
more than half of them managed to indulge this enjoyment one or more times a week.’

9. Ibid., pp. 91-2.

10. Prokop, Soziologie des Kinos, op. cit,, p. 33.

11. Bruno Fischli, ‘Das goldene Zeitalter der Kolner Kinematographie (1896-1918),’ in
Fischli (ed.), Vom Sehen im Dunkeln: Kinogeschichten einer Stadt , Cologne: Prometh,

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1990, p. 30.

12. Heide Schliipmann, Unheimlichkeit des Blicks : Das Drama desfriihen deutschen Ki-
nos , Basel, Frankfurt: Stroemfeld/Roter Stem, 1990,

13. See ‘Lebende Flottenbilder, vorgefUhrt durch den Biographen’, in Die Flotte, vot. 4, no.
5, May 1901, section ‘Vereinsnachrichten’, pp 75-6, Excerpts form this report are ap-
pended to my essay ‘Kino in der Kaiserzeit’, in Uli Jung (ed.), Der deutsche Film. As-
pekte seiner Geschichte, Trier: Wissensehaftlicher Verlag, 1993, pp. 47-50.

14. No footage featuring the German navy before 1908 has so far been found in German
film archives.

15. See ‘Der Deutsche Flottenverein als Schausteller’, DerKomet no. 927, 27.12. 1902, and
‘Die Kinematographen-Theater und der Deutsche Flotten-Vcrein, Der Kinematograph
no. 60, 19.2.1908.

16. See Die Flotte , Annual Report for 1903, p. 4,

17. The Monopolfilm distribution practice meant that in each area only one cinema received
a copy for exhibition and could thus take exclusive advantage of the premiere value of
the film. The first film to be treated in this manner, Asta Nielsen's AFGRUNDEN, reached
the German cinemas via the Diisseldorf distributor Ludwig Gottschalk. See Peter
Lahn’s essay in this volume and especially Connna Muller, Friihe deutsche Kinemato-
graphie, Stuttgart: Metzler, 1994.

18. See Paul Klebinder, Der deutsche Kaiser im Film , Berlin: Verlag Paul Klebinder, 1912.

19. Ibid., the first citation is from the preface (neither marked nor paginated), the second
from the unmarked article, ‘Hermelin und Lichtspielkunst' (p. 16).

20. See Herbert Birett, Das Filmangebot in Deutschland 1895-1911 , Munich: Winterberg;
1 am grateful to Herbert Birett for valuable suggestive information.

21. See Hans Magnus Enzensberger, ‘Scherbenwelt: Anatomie einer Wochenschau, 1 in En-
zensberger, FJnzelheiten 1: Bewusstse ins -Industrie, Frankfurt: Suhrkamp, 1964, pp.
106-133.

22. Paul Klebinder, Kronprinzens im Film, Berlin: Verlag Paul Klebinder, 1913, p. 9.

23. Der Kinematograph, no. 99, 18 November 1908.

24. Cf. Wemer K. Blessing, ‘Der monarchische Kult, politische Loyalitat und die Arbeiter-
bewegung im deutschen Kaiserreich,’ in Gerhard A. Ritter (ed.), Arbeiterkultur, Kdnig-
stein/Ts.: Athenaum, 1979, pp. 185-208.

25. George L. Mosse, Die Nationalisierung der Massen: Politische Symbolik und Massen-
bewegung in Deutschland von den Napoleonischen Kriegen bis zum Dritten Reich ,
Frankfurt: Fischer, 1 986.

26. For an overview see Thomas Elsaesser (ed.). Early Cinema : Space, Frame , Narrative ,
London: BFI Publishing, 1990, and Thomas Elsaesser, ‘The New Film History,’ Sight <£
Sound, vol. 55, no. 4, Autumn 1986, pp. 246-251; see also the more recent contributions
to the DOMITOR-conference, held from 29 June to 4 July 1992 at the University of
Lausanne, collected in Roland Cosandey and Franyois Albera (eds.), Cinema sansfron-

292 Notes

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tierellmages across Borders, 1896-1918. Internationality in World Cinema: Represen-
tations, Markets , Influences and Reception , Lausanne/Quebec: Editions Payot/Nuit
Blanche Editeur, 1995.

Oskar Messter, Film Pioneer:

Early Cinema between Science, Spectacle, and Commerce

1. See Oskar Messter, ‘Erinnerungen an die Anfange der Kinematographie in Deutsch-
land,’ Die Kinotechnik, no, 23, 1927, p, 613. See also an earlier, more detailed draft of
this article in the Messter Collection, Bundesarchiv (BA ) N 1275 , file 47 1 . (It should be
noted that the file numbers of the Messter Collection given here are no longer current, as
the collection has been re-arranged in 1994. Please consult the new catalogue of the
collection, Findbucher zu Bestdnden des Bundesarchiv s, vol. 48.)

2. See Letter Robert W, Paul to Oskar Messter, 5 August 1932, BA N 1275 , file 43,

3. See Letter Max GUewe to Oskar Messter, 18 June 1922, BA N 1275, file 352.

4. See Albert Narath, Oskar Messter: Der Begriinder der deutschen Kino - and Filmindus-
trie, Berlin: Deutsche Kinemathek, 1966, p. 12.

5. See ‘Kassenbuch der Firma Ed. Messter 1892-1896,’ BAN 1275, file 315.

6. Special-Catalog Nr. 32 der Fa. Ed. Messter , Berlin 1898; reprint, ed, Martin Loiper-
dinger, Basel and Frankfurt: Stroemfeld/Roter Stem, 1995, p. 80.

7. Ibid, p. 75.

8. One metre of sound picture cost 2.50 marks, in addition to the cost of the record. The
price of ‘silent’ film at the time lay between 60 pfennigs and 1.20 marks per metre,
depending on whether it was black and white or colour, and whether it was a so-called
‘art film.’ Older programmes could be had for lower rates. See Heinrich Putzo, ‘Aus den
Kindertagen des Tonfilms, 1 Lichtbildbuhne, no. 277/278, 20 September 1929.

9. See Corinna Muller, Fruhe deutsche Kinematographie: Formale, wirtschaftliche und
kulturelle Entwicklungen 1907-1912, Stuttgart and Weimar: Metzler, 1994, p. 80.

10. See Guido Seeber, ‘Trick und Ton,' Photographische Industrie, no. 40, 1930; reprinted
in Norbert Jochum (ed.). Das wandernde Bild: Der Filmpionier Guido Seeber, Berlin:
Stiftung Deutsche Kinemathek/Elephanten Press, 1979, pp. 125-6.

1 1 . See Harald Josse, Die Entstehung des Tonfilms: Beitrag zu einer faktenorientierten
Mediengeschichtsschreibung, Freiburg and Munich: Alber, 1984, p. 82,

12. See expose about Messters-Projektion, BA N 1275, file 355,

13. See Corinna Miiller, Fruhe deutsche Kinematographie, op. cit., p. 83.

14. Messter, Mein Weg mit dem Film, Berlin: Verlag Max Hesse, 1936, pp. 98-99.

15. Letter Maxim Galitzenstein to Oskar Messter, 20 September 1922, BA N 1275, file 355.

16. Letter Leo Mandl to Oskar Messter, 14 October 1924, BA N 1275, file 342.

17. Robert Heymann, Der Film in der Karikatur, Berlin 1929, p. 47.

1 8. This reconstruction of the career of Henny Porten follows mainly Corinna Muller’s ac-

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count in Friihe deutsche Kinematographie, op. cit., pp. 170ff.

19. Letter Maxim Galitzenstein to Oskar Messter, 20 September 1922, BA N 1275, file 355.

20. Ibid. See also Ivo Blom, ‘Filmvertrieb in Europa 1910-1915: Jean Desrnet und die
Messter-Film GmbH 2 KINtop 3, 1994, pp. 73ff.

21. See Corinna Muller, Friihe deutsche Kinematographie, op. cit,, pp. I26ff.

22. See ibid., pp. 166ff.

23. Its subjects alternated between anti-Russian propaganda, individual military heroism,
and patriotic home front efforts by popular artists and members of the royal family.

24. ‘Messters Kriegskinos,' Der Kinematograph, no. 437, 12 May 1915.

25. The special value of the equipment was first successfully put to the test during the Battle
of the Somme in 1916, see ‘Der Reihenbildner. Seine Anwendung und seine Vorteile,’
(typescript, undated), BA N 1275, file 446.

26. Aerial warfare and film technology combined in another of Oskar Messter’s inventions,
the machine-gun camera which ‘required exactly the same trigger movement and had
the same sighting mechanism, but instead of a cartridge belt it had rolls of film. Instead
of providing 600 rounds per minute it made 600 shots of film per minute. Each shot
displayed the enemy plane and a crosshair. The pilot could see where he had aimed and
whether he had ‘aimed’ too high or too low, and could correct his next flight according-
ly. (...) It became the rule that pilots were not sent into battle until they had proved
themselves competent shots with the machine-gun camera.’ Messter, Mein Weg mit dem
Film, op. cit., p. 88.

27. A reprint of Messter’s memorandum can also be found in KINtop 3, pp. 93ff. See also
Wolfgang Miihl-Benninghaus, ‘Oskar Messters Beitrag zum Ersten Weltkrieg,’ ibid., p.
113.

28. This is only the nominal price for the goldmark; because of money devaluation and re-
valuation, the costs for Ufa were reduced to ca. 3.8 milllion marks. This still considerable
amount also included the payments to Messter’s companions. See BA R109 1, file 1 38.

The French Connection:

Franco-German Film Relations before World War I

1. This essay is a reworked and shortened version of a paper presented in Gennan at the
1995 CineGraph conference in Hamburg, dedicated to Franco -German film relations.
While collecting primary materials we were greatly helped and supported by Youen
Bernard, the Deutsches Institut fur Filmkunde (DIF), and Martin Loiperdinger. Special
thanks are also due to Herbert Birett and Evelyn Hampicke, both of whom generously
offered us access to their research and source material.

2. Cf. Martin Loiperdinger ‘Wie der Film nach Deutschland kam,’ KINtop 1 ; Friiher Film
in Deutschland , Basel/Frankfurt: Stromfeld/Roter Stem, 1993, S. 115-118 as well as
Martin Loiperdinger, Roland Cosandey (eds.), L’ Introduction du cinematographe en

294 Notes

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Allemagne. De la case Demeny a la case Lumiere: Stollwerck, Lavanchy-Clarke et al.,
1892-1896 {-Archives 51, November 1992).

3. Cf. Friedrich von Zglinicki, Der Weg des Films , Hildesheim, New York; Olms Presse,
1979, p. 246-247 (his claims and conclusions are not, however, documented with refer-
ences to sources). Currently, this question is being investigated by, among others, Eve-
lyn Hampicke and Deac Rossell. See also Laurent Mannoni, Le grand art de la lumiere
et de l’ ombre: Archeologie du cinema, Paris; Nathan, 1994, p, 421, From Carpentiere’s
letter to Lumiere on p. 421, it becomes evident that Lumiere was aware of the German
competition.

4. Herbert Birett, Das Filmangebot in Deutschland 1895-1911, Munich: Winterberg,
1991. Herbert Birett researched these numbers for us.

5. See in this context Helmut H. Diederichs, ‘Die Anfange der deutschen Filmpublizistik
1895-1909,’ Publizistik, vol. 30, no. 1, 1985, pp. 55-71, and also Herbert Birett, ‘Stan-
dortverzeichnis friiher deutscher Filmzeitschriften’, KINtop 1, op. cit., pp. 136-144.

6. ‘Our trade is sighing under the French yoke, and even the last German film would have
remained unborn in Germany if the war had not arrived,’ Arthur Mellini, ‘Die Politik
und der Film,’ Licht-Bild-Biihne , vol. 7, no. 56, 29 August 1914, p. 2.

7. Ibid.

8. See Youen Bernard, L’ Eclipse. Vhistoire d’une maison de production et de distribution
cinematographique en France, de 1906 a 1923, Maitrise d’Etudes Cinematographiques
et Audi ovisuelles, Paris VII, 1992/1993, p. 15.

9. About Theophile Pathe compare Thierry Lefebvre and Laurent Mannoni, ‘Annuaire du
commerce et de I’industrie cinematographiques (France - 1913)’ in; Lefebvre and Man-
noni (eds.), L'Annee 1913 en France (= 1895, numero hors serie), October 1993, pp. 1 1 -
65. See also Youen Bernard, Les petite s maisons de production cinematographique
frangaises de 1906 a 1914, DEA d’Etudes Cinematographiques et Audiovisuelles, Paris
III, 1993/94, pp. 55-65.

10. For a detailed analysis consult Sabine Lenk, ‘Lichtblitze: Prolegomena zur Geschichte
der franzosischen Filmproduktionsgesellschaft Eclair im Deutschen Reich und in der
K.u.K. Monarchie Osterreich-Ungam,’ KINtop 1, op. cit., pp. 29-57 as well as ‘Licht-
blitze: Die Produktionsgesellschaft Eclair - ein Nachtrag,’ KINtop 4: Anfange des doku-
mentarischen Films, Basel/Frankfurt am Main: Stroemfeld/Roter Stem, 1995, pp. 163-
167.

1 1. Founded in 1906, Lux opened a Berlin office on April 10th, 1908, headed by one Gertrud
Griinspan. See note in Erste Internationale Film-Zeitung, vol. 3, no. 16, 15 April 1909.

12. See Cortnna Muller, Friihe deutsche Kinematographie: Formate, wirtschaftliche und
kulturelle Entwicklungen, Stuttgart, Weimar: Metzler, 1994, pp. 106-107, and endnote
no. 21.

13. See Youen Bernard, Les petites maisons..., op. cit., p. 69.

14. See Evelyn Hampicke, ‘Vive la Concurrence! Oder was sich uber Pathe finden Hess. Der

295 Notes

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Versuch einer Rekonstruktion,’ in Corinna Muller and Harro Segeberg (eds.), Medienge-
schichte des Films , vol. 2, Munich: Wilhelm Fink, forthcoming,

15. See Heinrich Auer, ‘Zur Kinofrage,’ Soziale Revue, vol. XIII, no. 1, 1913, pp. 19-36
(‘...Pathe Freres is supposed to have had 90% dividends in the year before last and
employs 5000 people.’)

16. Thierry Lefebre / Laurent Mannoni, ‘Annuaire du commerce et de 1’ Industrie cinemato-
graphiques (France- 191 3)3 in Lefebre / Mannoni (eds,), /’ Annee 1913 en France
(=1895, numero hors serie), October 1993, pp. 1 L65.

17. See Martin Koerber, ‘Filmfabrikant Oskar Messter - Stationen einer Karriere, 5 in Martin
Loiperdinger (ed.), Oskar Messter; Filmpionier der Kaiserzeit, Basel/Frankfurt:
Stroemfeld/Roter Stem, 1994, p. 58.

18. See Le Cinema from 14 Feb 1913 (Nielsen), 8 Aug 1913 (Porten), 21 Nov 1913 (Kay-
ssler), 28 Nov 1913 (Hofer), 3 Feb 1914 (Nielsen), 27 Feb 1914 (Morena), 6 Mar 1914
(May) and 10 Mar 1914 (Neumann, Treptow, Orla).

19. See 'Die Komtnuon," Erste Internationale Film-Zeitung, vol. 3, no. 1 1, 1 1 March 1909,

20. See Erste Internationale Film-Zeitung, vol. 3, no. 13, 15 March 1909.

21. See Erste Internationale Film-Zeitung, vol. 3, no. 25, 17 June 1909.

22. See Licht-Bild-Buhne, 25 May 1912.

23. See Martin Loiperdinger’s essay in this volume.

24. Helmut H. Diederichs, Der Student von Prag: Einfiihrung and Protokoll , Stuttgart: Fo-
cus, 1985, p. 6.

25. Hampicke, ‘Vive la concurrence!’ op. cit.

26. These papers are held at the Geheimes Staatsarchiv PreuBischer Kulturbesitz, Abt.
Merseburg (today Berlin-Dahlem) and have been researched by Herbert Birett.

27. Hampicke, 4 Vive la concurrence! ’ op, cit.

28. Oskar Messter, ‘Expose uber die neue Sensation der sprechenden, lebenden Photogra-
phic zum Zweck einer Gesellschaftsgriindung,’ quoted after Harald Josse, Die Entste-
hung des Tonftlms: Beitrag zu einer faktenorientierten Mediengeschichtsschreihung,
Freiburg/Munich: Verlag Karl Alber, 1984, p. 79.

29. See Josse, Die Entstehung des Tonfilms, op. cit., p. 79-8, also Muller, Friihe deutsche
Kinematographie , op. cit., p. 80. An advertisement of their joint system is published in
Koerber, ‘Oskar Messter,’ op. cit., p. 50.

30. See the counter statements by Pathe in Erste Internationale Film-Zeitung , vol. 3, no. 49,
2 December 1909 and no. 50, 9 December 1909.

31. Erste Internationale Film-Zeitung, vol. 3, no. 20, 13 May 1909.

32. Julius Becker, ‘Der Kampf gegen die auslandischen Films,’ Licht-Bild-Buhne , no. 62, 19
September 1914, on Gaumont also see Herbert Birett/Sabine Lenk, ‘Die Behandlung
auslandischer Filmfimien wahrend des ersten Weltkriegs,’ in 1895-1995: Positionen
deutscher Fiimgeschichte , Munich: diskurs film (= Miinchner Beitrage zur Filmphilolo-
gie 8), forthcoming.

296 Notes

Copyrighted material

33. See Lenk, ‘Lichtblitze: Prolegomena..., 1 op. cit ., p. 37.

34. Becker, ‘Der Kampf gegen die auslandischen Films,’ op. cit.

35. For a detailed analysis of how foreign firms in general, and French firms in particular
were ’administered 1 or expropriated during the war, see Herbert Birett/Sabine Lenk, op.
cit .

36. ‘Der Einzug der Deutschen in Paris Licht-Bild-Biihne, no. 58, 5 September 1914.

37. See Becker, op. cit., who even states that ‘Pathe was always cheap and real, more real
than many of the German firms.'

38. Arthur Mellini, ’Die Politik und der Film,’, op. cit.

39. Stefan Wronski (=Ferdinand Hardekopf), ‘Der Kinematograph,’ Nord und Siid, vol.
XXXIV, no. 412, 1910, pp. 326-328. Quoted from the reprint in Jorg Schweinitz (ed.),
Prolog vordem Film: Nachdenken iiberein neues Medium 1909-1914, Leipzig: Reclam,
1992, p. 157.

40. Erste Internationale Film-Zeitung, vol. 3, no. 31, 29 June 1909.

41 . See, for instance, the Pathe and Gaumont titles of the Joye collection, in Roland Cosand-
ey (ed.), Wecome Home Joye : Film um 1910, Frankfurt/Basel: Stroemfeld/Roter Stem (=
KINtop Schriften 1), 1993.

42. See ‘Vom Kino-Deutsch,’ Erste Internationale Film-Zeitung, vol. 3, no. 52, 23 Decem-
ber 1909, see also Assessor H.F., ‘ Die VerdeutschungfremdsprachigerTitel,’ Erste /nter-
nationale Film-Zeitung, vol. 3, no. 41, 7 October 1909.

43. Willy Rath, ‘Emporkbmmling Kino, 1 Der Kunstwart, no. 24, 1912/13, pp. 415-424.
Quoted from the reprint in Schweinitz, Prolog vordem Film, op.cit., p. 79.

44. ‘Kinematographische Vorfuhrungen,’ Ostasiatischer Lloyd-Shanghaier Nachrichten, 26
July 1907.

45. ’Kinematograph New Point Hotel,’ Ostasiatischer Lloyd-Shanghaier Nachrichten, 11
August 1911.

46. ‘Die Verrohung des Kinos,’ Ostasiatischer Lloyd-Shanghaier Nachrichten, no. 17, 25
April 1913, p. 1 (part 1); no. 19,9 May 1913, p. 154 (part 2); no. 20, 16 May 1913, p. 163
(part 3).

47. See Walter Thielemann, ‘Die Nutzbarmachung der Kinematographie fur Schule,
Jugendpflege und Volksbildung,’ Die Hochwacht, vol. IV, no. 10, pp. 244-5; and ‘Kine-
matographie und Jugendpflege,’ ibid., pp. 270-1 .

The Danish Influence: David Oliver and Nordisk in
Germany

1 . Der Kinematograph , no. 450, 1 1 August 1915.

2. Bild <£ Film, vol. 4, no. 12, 1914 / 15,

3. See Der Kinematograph, no. 576, 16 January 1918.

4. See Wolfgang Jacobsen, Erich Pommer: Ein Produzent macht Filmgeschichte. Berlin:

297 Notes

Copyrighted material

Argon, 1989, p. 48.

5. After leaving his post as general director at Ufa, Oliver worked as a free-lance project
manager, building new cinema palaces, especially for the Phoebus Co, At this point he
had already built large cinemas in Dresden, Munich and Nuremberg. In 1928 he writes:
‘As founder and manager of the Oliver concern, and later of the Universum Filin AG, I
have initiated and supervised a number of great building projects in the last 25 years.
This has been a great success, as every expert in the field can tell you...’ In the summer
of 1927 Oliver, who was general manager of the real estate investors’ group ‘Grundwert
AG’ at the time, and realizing how profitable such a venture could be, decided to erect a
cinema palace in Hamburg, which was meant to be larger than all the existing movie
houses in the city, as w'ell as offering an extensive variety programme, far surpassing
those of other cinemas in scope and quality. The movie palace was built in the American
style with 2700 seats - the largest cinema in Europe. This information is taken from
Roland Jaeger, Block d* Kochfeld: Die Architekten des ‘Deutschlandhauses’ PhD Ham-
burg, 1995.

Paul Davidson, the Frankfurt Film Scene and AFGRUNDEN
in Germany

1. Karl Zimmerschied, Die deutsche Filmindustrie : Ihre Entwicklung, Organisation und
Stellung im deutschen Staats- und Wirtschaftsleben , Erlangen, 1922, p. 49.

2. Kurt Mtihsam and Egon Jacobsohn, Lexikon des Films, Berlin: Verlag der Lichtbild-
btihne, 1926, p. 38, The sections on Paul Davidson are based on a questionnaire sent to
Davidson by the publisher, which he filled out extensively.

3. The brief biographical information on Wronker, Wiesbader and Bauer was supplied by
the Jewish Museum, Frankfurt am Main,

4. The founding of each of the cinemas are published, along with place and date, in a
‘Stammbaum der U.T.,’ which is illustrated in a PAGU advertising brochure from 1913.

5. Zimmerschied, op. tit., p. 49.

6. Ibid.

7. Ibid.

8. For a brief account of the history of sound pictures and their significance for the devel-
opment of cinematography in Germany in this period (1903-1913), see Martin Koer-
ber’s essay in this volume.

9. On 29 August in the Variete Apollo Theatre in Berlin. The numerous reports of this event
indicate a fascination for ‘the subtle correspondence between movement and sound’ that
it contained,

10. C. Borger, ‘Das “Tonfilmtheater,” ein neues kinematographisches Untemehmen,’ Der
Kinemato graph, no. 24, 12 June 1907.

11. See the essays by Martin Loiperdinger and Martin Koerber elsewhere in this volume.

298 Notes

Copyrighted material

12. C. Borger, op. cit,

13. b. (= C. Borger), ‘Bericht iiber die Entwicklung des Tonbi Id-Theaters Zeil 54,’ Der Ki-
nematograph , no. 37, 11 September 1907.

14. C. Borger, ‘Tonbild-Theater ...3 Der Kinematograph, no. 48, 27 November 1907.

15. Th. M., ‘Wie singende Bilder (Tonbilder) entstehen,’ Der Kinematograph , no. 65, 25
March 1907. Reprinted in Martin Koerber, op. cit., pp. 50-52. This atmospheric descrip-
tion of a recording in a Messter studio reports about four-figure royalty payments which
were paid to top workers,

16. Der Kinematograph , no. 76, 10 June 1908.

17. Report on the economical situation of the Deutsche Tonbild-Theater-Gesellschaft
m.b.H, in Der Kinematograph , no, 223, 5 April 1911.

18. Zimmerschied, op. cit., p. 49.

19. Viktor Happrich, ‘Das Union-Theater,’ Der Kinematograph, no. 140, 1 September 1909.

20. Frankfurter Adressbuch, 1909, p. 24.

21 . Corinna Muller, op. cit., p. 37.

22. Dr Arthur Spamer, ‘Zur Krisis in der Filmindustrie, I. Wesen der Filmindustrie und ihre
gegenwartige Lagc,’ Erste Internationale Film-Zeitung, no. 30, 22 July 1909. Two fur-
ther installments of this article appeared in no. 3 1, 29 July 1909 and no. 33, 12 August
1909.

23. Ibid., no. 33, 12 August 1909.

24. Der Kinematograph, no. 172, 13 April 1910.

25. Ibid.

26. Ibid.

27. Der Kinematograph, no. 283, 29 May 1912.

28. Der Kinematograph, no. 181, 15 June 1910.

29. These figures were taken from a commemorative publication by PAGU on the opening
of the ‘U.T.’ theatre in the ‘Bavariahaus’ on Berlin’s Friedrichstrasse on 30 May 1913.

30. Kleine Presse, 23 July 1910.

31 . C. Borger in Der Kinematograph, no. 215,8 February 1911.

32. See Peter Lahn, ‘aegrunden und die deutsche Filmindustrie. Zur Entstehung des Mon-
polfilms,’ in Manfred Behn (ed.), Schwarzer Traum und weisse Sklavin: Deutsch-dd-
nische Filmbeziehungen 1910-1930, Munich: edition text & kritik, pp. 15-22, and
Corinna Muller, op. cit., pp. 126-7.

33. Ibid.

34. Paul Davidson in P. Diaz, Asia Nielsen: Eine Biographic unserer populdren Kunstlerin,
Berlin; Verlag der Lichtbild-Buhne, n.d.; reprinted in Renate Seydel and Allan Hage-
dorff (eds.), Asia Nielsen: Ihr Leben in Fotodokumenten, Selbstzeugnissen und zeit-
genossischen Betrachtungen, Berlin: Henschel, 1981, p. 50.

35. Der Kinematograph, no. 315, 8 January 1913.

299 Notes

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Munich’s First Fiction Feature:

DIE WAHRHEIT

1. See Sylvia Wolf and Ulrich Kurowski, Das Miinchner Film unci Kino Buck , Munich:
Editions 1/2, 1988, pp. llff.

2. The film has been preserved by the Munich Filmmuseum. A nitrate print is held by the
estate of Peter Ostermayr.

3. See Uta Berg-Ganschow and Wolfgang Jacobsen, ... Film... Stadt... Kino... Berlin..., Ber-
lin: Argon Verlag, 1987.

4. Sec Corinna Muller, F riche deutsche Kinematographie: Formate, wirtschaftliche und
kulturelle Entwicklungen, Stuttgart and Weimar; Verlag J.B. Metzler, 1994, p, 74,

5. Peter Ostermayr, Wie es begann... und wurde! ERZAHLTES vom MUNCHNER FILM.
50 Jahre Erinnerungen und Erfahrungen. 1907 bis 1957 , unpublished manuscript.
Translated from the German by the author. Thanks to Andreas Mardersteig GmbH for
making an excerpt available to me.

6. Even more primitive was Karl Valentin’s first film, karl Valentins hochzeit (1912).
Produced by Munich’s other film pioneer, Martin Kopp, the film was obviously shot on
an open air set. See Jan -Christopher Horak, ‘Ridere da Sentirsi male. II Cinema comico
Tedesco e Karl Valentin / Laughing Until it Hurts: Karl Valentin and German Film Com
edy,’ in Paolo Cherchi Usai and Lorenzo Codelli (eds.), Prima di Caligari: Cinema
tedesco , 1895-1920 i Before Caligari: German Cinema, 1895-1920 , Pordenone: Ed.
Biblioteca dellTmmagine, 1990, pp. 202-229.

7. Corinna Muller notes that the cost of raw film stock at 42 pfennings a meter forced all
German producers to produce at shooting ratios of 2.5 to 1 or lower. See Friihe deutsche
Kinematographie, op. cit., pp. 85-6.

8. See Gerhardt Lamprecht, Deutsche Stummfilme 1903-1912 , Berlin: Deutsche Kine-
mathek e.V., 1969, pp. 17-8.

9. An abridged version of Ostermayr’s narrative was published in a Munich newspaper as
‘Mit der wahrheit fing der Schwindel an. Mein erster Spielfilm / Eine Plauderei von
Peter Ostermeyer,’ n.d,, reprinted in Wolf/Kurowski, Das Miinchner Film und Kino
Buch, op. cit., pp. 17-8.

10. Muller, Friihe deutsche Kinematographie, op, cit.., p. 74. Quote is from ‘Monopoli-
sierung oder Zentralisierung,’ in Die Lichtbild-Biihne, no. 31 5 August 1911.

11. Ibid.

12. See Wolf/Kurowski, Das Miinchner Film und Kino Buck, op. cit., p. 20.

13. Ibid., p. 21.

Moving Images of America in Early German Cinema

1. George Grosz, Em kleines Ja und ein grosses Nein , Reinbek: Rovvohlt, 1986 (1st ed.
1955), pp. 220-1. My translation.

300 Notes

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2. Incidentally, ‘apaches’ was a common term for urban criminals and semi-criminals, re-
vealing how elements from the urban underworld and the American West were merged
into one sphere of adventurous imagination which had its home in cinema.

3. George Grosz, ’Gesang der Goldgraber,’ Neue Jugend, vol, 1, no. 11/12, February/
March 1917, p. 242.

4. Walter Hasenclever, 'Der Kintopp als Erzieher, Eine Apologie,’ (1913) in Anton Kaes
(ed.), Kino-Debatte: Texte z urn Verhdltnis von Literatur und Film 1909-1929 , Munich/
Tubingen: dtv/Niemeyer, 1978, p. 48. My translation.

5. Karl Hans Strobl, ‘Der Kinematograph,’ { 191 1) in Fritz GUttinger, Kein Tag ohne Kino;
Die Schriftsteller und der Stummfilm, Frankfurt: Deutsches Filmmuseum, 1984, p. 52.

6. Kristin Thompson, Exporting Entertainent: America in the World Film Market 1907-
1934 , London: BFI Publishing, 1985, p. 37.

7. Emilie Altenloh, Zur Soziologie des Kinos : Die Kino-Unternehmung und die sozialen
Schichten ihrer Besucher, Jena: Eugen Diederichs, 1914, p, 10.

8. In November 1914, the Organisation for Protecting the Interests of Cinematography
(Verein zur Wahrung der Interessen der Kinematographie und verwandter Branchen)
advised cinema owners not to show films during the war from enemy countries or pro
duced by companies working with capital investments from enemy countries.

9. Cf. Herbert Birett (ed.), Verzeichnis in Deutschland gelaufener Filme: Entscheidungen
der Filmzensur 1911-1920, Berlin etc.: K.G. Saur, 1980.

10. Cf. Peter Stanfield, ‘The Western 1909-14: A Cast of Villains,’ Film History , vol. 1.,
1987, pp. 97-112. Also Jon Tuska, The Filming of the West , Garden City, New York:
Doubleday, 1976.

1 1 . Cf. G. Edward White, The Eastern Establishment and the Western Experience: The West
of Frederic Remington, Theodore Roosevelt, and Owen Wister , New Haven: Yale Uni-
versity Press, 1968.

12. Cf. Charles Musser, Before the Nickelodeon: Edwin S. Porter and the Edison Manufac-
turing Company , Berkeley, Los Angeles, Oxford: California University Press, 1991.

1 3. Lewis Jacobs, The Rise of the American Film , New York: Harcourt, Brace & Co., 1939,
p. 43. Cf. also Charles Musser, The Emergence of Cinema: The American Screen to
1907 (History of the American Cinema, vol. 1), New York: Charles Scribener’s Sons,

1990, ‘The Transition to Story Film: 1903-1904,’ pp. 337-369.

14. For a filmography cf Edward Buscombe (ed,). The BFI -Companion to the Western ,
London: Andre Deutsch/BFI, 1988.

15. Cf. Birett, Verzeichnis gelaufener Filme, op. cit.

16. Cf. Herbert Birett, Das Filmangebot in Deutschland 1895-1911 , Munich: Winterberg,

1991, lists 109 films directed by D.W, Griffith, Cf, also Helmut H. Diederichs, Friihge-
schichte deutscher Filmtheorie: Ihre Entstehung und Entwicklung bis zum Ersten
Weltkrieg, Appendix: ‘Griffith’ Biograph-Filme in Deutschland,’ Habil. (Manuscript),
Universitat Munster, 1991, pp. 626-63 L

301 Notes

Copyrighted material

17. Cf. Diederichs, Friihgeschichte, op. cit., p. 626.

18. Cf. Der Kinematograph, no. 348, 1913.

19. Willi Bierbaum, ‘Heirnat und Fremde,’ in Giittinger (ed.), Kein Tag ohne Kino , op. cit.,

p. 180.

20. Karl Hans StrobI, ‘Die Tochterder Rothaut,’ Lichtbild-Buhne , vol. 8, no. 8, 25 Feb 191 1 ,
p. 4. The title and description might refer to several contemporary films. In Lichtbild-
Biihne of 24 Feb 1912 die tochter des indianerstammes (Nestor) is mentioned, a
film titled die tochter der rothaute (Bison) was censored in Berlin in 1913 as ‘not
suitable for children,' and another film titled die tochter tier rothaut was partly
banned in 1915 in Munich.

21. Arthur Holitscher, Amerika: Heute und Morgen , Berlin: S. Fischer, 1913, pp. 266-69.

22. See Altenloh, op. cit., pp. 11-12.

23. Konrad Lange, Das Kino in Gegenwart und Zukunft, Stuttgart: Enke, 1920, p. 41 .

Early German Film Comedy, 1895-1917

1. Lichtbild-Buhne , 13 December 1913.

2. Martin Loiperdinger (ed.), Special-Catalog No. 32 von Ed. Messter (Berlin 1898), re-
print, Frankfurt and Basel: Stroemfeld/Roter Stem, 1995 (KINtop-Schriften 3), p. 76.

3. Heide Schliipmann, Unheimlichkeit des Blicks: Das Drama des fruhen deutschen Ki-
nos. Frankfurt/Basel : Stroemfeld/Roter Stem, 1990, p. 51.

4. The films were also available on the German market, with titles such as Fricot macht
die Rosskur and Calino hat Pferdefleisch gegessen.

5. See Schliipmann Unheimlichkeit des Blicks , op.cit., pp. 50-58.

6. See Thomas Brandlmeier, ‘Fin de siecle Comedy Culture,’ in: Helga Belach and Wolf-
gang Jacobsen (eds.). Slapstick & Co.: Early Comedies, Berlin: Argon, 1995, pp. 17-72.

7. See Volker Klotz, Burgerliches Lachtheater, Reinbek: Rowohlt, 1987.

8. See Thomas Brandlmeier, Filmkomiker: Die Errettung des Grotesken, Frankfurt/Main:
Fischer Taschenbuchverlag, 1983.

9. Adequately praised in Heide Schliipmann, Die Unheimlichkeit des Blicks, op. cit.

10. Ibid., p. 126.

11. In 1926, with so this is Paris, Lubitsch and Kraly used the same operetta material
again.

12. Lubitsch 's work can generally also be interpreted as a cinema of crisis, see Thomas
Brandlmeier, ‘Anmerkungen zu Ernst Lubitsch,’ epd-Film 2/1984.

Asta Nielsen and Female Narration: The Early Films

l. On Habermas’ term of ‘self-thematization’ see Jurgen Habermas, Strukturwandel der
Offentlichkeit : Untersuchung zu einer Kategorie der biirgerlichen Gesellschaft (1962),

302 Notes

Copyrighted material

Frankfurt: Luchterhand, 1969, p. 56.

2. Andre Bazin, Qu’est-ce que le cinema ? Paris: Cerf, 1975.

Melodrama and Narrative Space:

Franz Hofer’s heidenroslein

1. See Tom Gunning, 4 Non-Continuity, Continuity, Discontinuity: A Theory of Genres in
Early Film,’ Iris, vol. 2, no. 1, 1984, pp. 100-112 and his ‘The Cinema of Attractions:
Early Film, Its Spectator and the Avant Garde,’ in: Thomas Elsaesser (ed.), Early Cine-
ma: Space , Frame, Narrative, London: BFI Publishing, 1990, pp. 56-62.

2. For bio-filmographical information about Hofer, see Elena Dagrada’s essay in this vol-
ume; Fritz Giittinger, ‘Franz Hofer: Ausgrabung des Jahres?’ In: Kopfen Sie mal ein Ei
in Zeitlupe! Streifziige dutch die Welt des Stummfilms, Zurich: NZZ Verlag, 1992, pp.
215-226; and my brief entry in Ginette Vincendeau (ed.), Encyclopedia of European
Cinema, London: BFI Publishing, 1995, p. 207,

3. Heide Schlupmann, ‘Cinema as Anti -Theater: Actresses and Female Audiences in Wil-
helminian Germany,’ Iris 11, Summer 1990, p. 90, See also Schliipmann’s essay in this
volume. With similar implications, Janet Bergstrom (‘Asia Nielsen’s Early German
Films,’ in: Paolo Cherchi Usai/Lorenzo Codelli (eds.). Before Caligari: German Cine-
ma, 1895-1920, Pordenone: Edizioni Biblioteca dell Tmmagine, 1990, pp. 178-180) has
desribed Asta Nielsen: ' If one looks at the story structure, Nielsen’s female characters
are punished for their transgressive behavior, or punish themselves, or move back within
social norms in the final scenes. In many of her melodramatic parts, she is a victim at the
end. Yet, she is never a conventional victim. The very naturalness with which she en-
dows so many actions deemed unusual for women, her integrity, her depth of feeling,
her active sense of intelligence, her particular kind of sensuality, mark her female roles
with an individuality that resists the reduction to types that will become common during
the 1920s in Germany. In Asta Nielsen’s films of the pre- Weimar period, she creates
characters based on familiar melodramatic types, but who are nevertheless individual-
ized by a strong sense of self-identity and self-definition through their expression of
interiority and the way they assert their presence within the environment.’

4. Heide Schlupmann, ‘Melodrama and Social Drama in Early German Cinema,’ Camera
Obscura 22, January 1990, pp. 75-6.

5. Ibid., p. 76.

6. Ibid , p. 78.

7. Ibid., pp. 86-7.

8. Ibid., p. 85.

9. Peter Brooks, The Melodramatic Imagination: Balzac, Henry James, Melodrama and
the Mode of Excess (1976), New York: Columbia University Press, 1985, p. 62.

10. Emilie Altenloh, Zur Soziohgie des Kino: Die Kinounternehmung und die sozialen

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Schichten ihrer Besucher, Jena: Diederichs, 1914.

\\.Ibid.,p. 58.

12. Ibid.

13. Heide Schlupmann, The Sinister Gaze: Three Films by Franz Hofer from 1913,’ in
Before Caligari , op. cit. , p. 452.

14. For the latter series, see Fritz Guttinger, ‘Franz Hofer: Ausgrabung des Jahres?’ Op. cit.

15. heidenroslein. Bin dramatischer Kunstfilm in 3 Akten. Apollo-Film-Oesellscbaft
m.b.H.; dir./aut: Franz Hofer; cam: Ernst Krohn; act: Lya Ley, Fritz Achterberg, A. von
Horn. See Die Lichtbildbiihne, vol. 9, no. 38, 23 September 1916, p. 41.

16. This was suggested by Heide Schlupmann at the workshop ‘Rot fiir Gefahr, Feuer und
Liebe: Early German Cinema, 191 1-1919,’ Nederlands Filmmuseum, Amsterdam, 28
October 1995.

17. Siegfried Kracauer, ‘Uber Arbeitsnachweise: Konstruktion eines Raumes’ (1930), in:
Schriften 5.2, ed. Inka Miilder-Bach, Frankfurt: Suhrkamp, 1990, p. 186; transl. quoted
from Miriam Hansen, ‘Mass Culture as Hieroglyphic Writing: Adorno, Derrida,
Kracauer,’ New German Critique 56, Spring/Summer 1992, p. 66.

18. See Die Lichtbildbiihne, vol. 9, no. 35, 2 September 1916, p. 34.

19. See e.g. Jurgen Kasten, ‘Dramatik und Leidenschaft. Das Melodram der fruhen zehner
Jahre: Von ABGRUNDE (1910) bis VORDERTREPPE UND HINTERTREPPE
(1915),’ in: Werner Faulstich/Helmut Korte (eds.), Fischer Filmgeschichte, vol. 1: Von
den Anfdngen bis zum etablierten Medium 1895-1924 , Frankfurt: Fischer Taschenbuch-
verlag, 1 994, pp. 243-4,

20. ‘What Franz Hofer actually delivers here is proof of the training for effect [’’Dressur zur
Wirkung”].’ Die Lichtbildbiihne, vol. 9, no. 35, 2 September 1916, p. 28.

Cinema from the Writing Desk:

Detective Films in Imperial Germany

1 . Siegfried Kracauer, From Caligari to Hitler: A Psychological History of the German
Film , Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1947, p. 19.

2. See the contributions of Heide Schlupmann, Karen Pehla and Thomas Elsaesser in
Hans- Michel Bock/Claudia Lenssen (eds.), Joe May: Regisseur und Produzent, Mu-
nich: edition text & kritik, 1991, and the essay by Sebastian Hesse, below.

3. Heide Schlupmann, ‘Wahrheit und Luge im Zeitalter der technischen Reproduzier-
barkeit: Detektiv und Heroine bei Joe May,’ in Bock/Lenssen (eds.), Joe May , op. cit,
1991, p. 45.

4. Ibid.

5. Ibid,, p. 49. For a more extended discussion of the problem of ideology in the new Film
history, seeTilo R. Knops, ‘Eingefrorene Leiblichkeit: Anmerkungen zu einer feminis-
tischen Geschichte des friihen deutschen Films, 'Neue Ziircher Zeitung (foreign edi-

304 Notes

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tion), 25 April 1991 ; reprint in Film- und Fermehwissenschaft , report no. 2/1 991 , Ges-
ellschaft fur Film- und Femsehwissenschaft, Berlin.

6. See Thomas Elsaesser, ‘Early German Cinema: audiences, style and paradigms,’ Screen
33/2, Summer 1992, pp. 205-214.

7. See Miriam Hansen, ‘Early Cinema - Whose Public Sphere?’ In Elsaesser (ed.), Early
Cinema; Space, Frame, Narrative, London: BFI Publishing, 1990, pp, 228-246.

8. Although until the beginning of 1916 American films still entered the country through
Scandinavia, despite the blockade. See Kristin Thompson, Exporting Entertainment:
America in the World Film Market, 1907-1934, London: BFI Publishing, 1985, p. 53.

9. Still Hoffmanns erzahlungen (1916) begins with the director Oswald staring into
the camera with a look demanding respect, in front of a stone clearly inscribed ‘Here
Schiller wrote his Wallenstein.’

10. In der mann im keller the fake business card of the disguised Detective Webbs bears
the company insignia ‘Continental,’ and Fritz Lang showed much later in kampfende
herzen (1920) a background scene of a studio street with a cinema called ‘Decla Cin-
ema.'

1 1. Narrative indecisions of the transitional phase are also recognisable here, as in die jagd
NACH DER IOO-PFUND-NOTE(1913) Or DAS GEHEIMNIS VON CHATEAU RICHMOND ( 1 9 1 3)
by Willy Zeyn. What these feature-length films about a mysterious treasure hunted by
not only the main character as the lucky heir but also the conspiratorial male organisa-
tion and the German serial detective ‘Nobody’ lack is primarily an economy of informa-
tion transmission. Instead of a logical stringency of the investigative solution of a sus-
penseful, conflict-ridden puzzle, confusion reigns over the roles and the meanings of the
main characters as well as the sense of the whole. For example, Miss Nobody appears in
the beginning to be spying on the hero half-heartedly, while in the second half we learn
that she is a detective. Instead of making deductions, she checks the legality of the
inheritance like a policewoman. In total, the criminal case seems to present just an ex-
cuse for sensational chase scenes over rooftops and storehouses, bridges and steam-
boats.

12. See Karen Pehla, ‘Joe May und seine Detektive: Der Serienfilm als Kinoerlebnis,’ in
Hans-Michael Bock/Claudia Lenssen (eds.), Joe May , op. cit., pp. 61-72.

13. Also May and Reicher himself, who took responsibility for the book, obviously had
difficulties with the logic of the treatment development: to Webbs telegraphic request
for permission to enter the lord’s villa the answer arrives that he left on holiday on the
15th. The decisive clue for the crime, the lord’s letter forged by Ganovan and found on
the bride by the disguised Webbs, is dated the 20th: it states that the holiday is over, and
he is returning to arrange the wedding which is due to take place soon afterwards. Why
should the lord want to come after his holiday, doesn’t he then have to take a second
holiday, or does he intend to end his service in the colonies?

14. Fritz Bleibtreu wrote a mocking review after the Zurich premiere in 1913: ‘der mann

305 Notes

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im keller haunts the Radium. In a dark cellar, as the improbabilities are sufficiently
murky themselves. The cinema is filled with a joie-de-vivre...for the detective, who is in
the land of milk and honey. However, Jung-Reicher does a good job, and suspense there
must be, says the man from Berlin.’ Quoted after Fritz Giittinger, Kein Tag ohne Kino:
Schriftsteller iiberden Stummfilm. Frankfurt am Main: Filmmuseum, 1984, p. 278.

15. Karl Bleibtreu, ‘Theater und Kino,’ Kinema, vol. 3, nos. 14-18, 1913.

16. See Herbert Birett (ed.), Verzeichnis in Deutschland gelaufener Filme: Entscheidungen
der Filmzensur 191 1 1920. Munich et ah: K.G. Saur, 1980.

17. Ibid ., pp. 15, 16, 20, 23, 536, 304.

18. Ibid . p. 64.

19. When Jean-Luc Godard held a long TV interview with Fritz Lang for Le Dinosaur et le
Bebe in November 1964, the two directors discussed the build-up of a scene and how
they differently value a Fixed meaning that a director has before shooting a scene. ‘Let’s
assume,’ said Fritz Lang, the experienced crime thriller and detective director who had
been working since the silent era, to his younger colleague, while drawing a rectangle
on a piece of paper, ‘we have this room here. Then the writing desk will be placed there.’

20. See Schlupmann, ' Wahrheit und Luge,’ op, cit ,, p. 49.

Ernst Reicher alias Stuart Webbs:

King of the German Film Detectives

1. Licht-Bild-Buhne , no. 10, 1914, p. 61.

2. die geheimnisvolle vtLLA, dir. Joe May; script Ernst Reicher; camera Max Fass-
bender; cast Ernst Reicher, Sabine Impekoven, Julius Falkenstein; prod. Continental-
Kunstfilm, Berlin; premiere 13 March 1914, Berlin, Kammerlichtspiele.

3. The exact figure is difficult to discern, since contemporary programmes and information
in the trade press were often contradictory.

4. Ernst Reicher was bom on 19 September 1985, the son of theatre actor Emanuel Reich-
er. At the age of 18 he entered the theatre, working in Berlin, London, Munich and
Frankfurt. In 1912 he embarked on a film career, and his First project with Joe May was
in the same year with vorgluten des balkanbrandes.

5. Siegfried Kracauer, From Caligari to Hitler : A Psychological History of the German
Film , Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1947, p. 19.

6. Ibid., p. 20,

7. Ibid., p. 19.

8. Ibid.

9. Contemporary censorship reports indicate that detective films were prohibited to chil-
dren, and that in some cases violent or suicide scenes had to be cut, but that only very
rarely was a whole film banned.

10. Licht-Bild-Buhne, no. 5, 1914, p. 69.

306 Notes

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11. Lichi-Bild-Biihne, no, 21, 1915, p. 26,

12. Der {Cinematograph , no. 374, 1914.

13. ‘Tension and interest are not roused by the plot (we are long familiar with the stock
situations from crime fiction), but our keen interest in Webbs’ fate is kept alive by the
use of scenery, both from the point of view of the director and of the actors.’ Licht-Bild-
Buhne , no. 14, 1914, p. 37.

14. Licht-Bild-Buhne , no. 34, 1915, p. 32.

15. Ibid.

16. In J5rg Schweinitz (ed.), Prolog vor dem Film; Nachdenken iiber ein neues Medium,
1909-1914 , Leipzig: Reclani, 1992, p. 66.

17. Ibid., p. 86.

18. Ibid., pp. 128ff.

19. Emilie Altenloh, Zur Soziologie des Kino: Die Kino-Unternehmung und die sozialen
Schichten ihrer Besucher, Jena: Diederichs, 1914, p. 98.

20. Ibid., pp. 82-3,

21. Licht-Bild-Buhne , no. 3, 1916, p. 36.

22. This bears a striking resemblance to a contemporary call for women’s emancipation, as
Heide Schliipmann points out in her Unheimlichkeit des Blicks: Das Drama desfriihen
deutschen Kinos, Frankfurt/Basel: Stroemfeld/Roter Stern, 1990,

23. Heide Schliipmann, ‘Wahrheil und Luge im Zeitalter der technischen Reproduzier-
barkeit: Detektiv in Heroine bei Joe May,’ in Hans-Michael Bock and Claudia Lenssen
(eds.), Joe May: Regisseur und Produzent , Munich: edition text & kritik, 1991 , p. 47.

24. Programme in the Ernst Reicher File , Stiftung Deutsche Kinemathek, Berlin.

25. Ibid.

26. Schliipmann, 4 Wahrheit und Luge,’ op. cit., p. 45.

27. A similar argument is put forward in Thomas Elsaesser, ‘Filmgesehichte-Firmenge-
schichte-Familiengeschichte: Der Ubergang vom Wilhelminischen zum Weimarer
Film,’ in Hans-Michael Bock and Claudia Lenssen (eds.), Joe May, op.cit., 1991, pp. 1 1-
30

28. Ibid., p. 49.

29. Licht-Bild-Buhne , no. 12, 1914, p. 15.

30. Licht-Bild-Buhne , no. 34, 1914, p. 37.

3 1 . This motif is also found in the detective film der bar von baskerville, also made in
1915.

32. Lupu Pick probably met Ernst Reicher during the shooting of the Webbs film die pa-
gode (1916/17), in which he played the supporting role of Dr Tomari,

33. This motif obviously belonged to the most popular Webbs films, and it was shown again
after the war in March 1919.

307 Notes

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The Faces of Stellan Rye

1. Anders W. Holm, ‘Dagmarteatrets Forsieson,’ Verde nsspejlet 4, no, 52, 1906, p. 824.

2. Olaf Fpnss, Fra Dagmarteatres Glansperiode : Erindringer, Copenhagen: Chr. Erich-
sen, 1949, p. 24.

3. Holm, ‘Dagmarteatres Forsaeson,’ op. cit p. 825,

4. Clara Pontoppidan, Eet Liv - Mange Liv: Erindringer , vol, 1 : Barndom ogfprsle Ung-
dom , Copenhagen: Westermann, 1949, pp. 197 -8.

5. See C.H. [= Christian Houmark], ‘Johannes Poulsen om Stellan Rye,’ Kpbenhavn , 4
September 1906.

6. See Stellan Rye, Lpgnens Ansigter: En Symfoni , Copenhagen: Gyldendal, p. 34.

7. Herman Bang, ‘[Review of] Lfignens Ansigter Kpbenhavn, 6 September 1906, p. 1 .

8. Stellan Rye, ‘En Prpve,’ Hver 8, day 12, no. 15, pp. 236-237.

9. Harry Jacobsen, Den tragiske Herman Bang, Copenhagen: Hagerup, 1966, p. 149.

10. See Herman Bang, Denied A Country , transl. Marie Bush and A.C. Chaler, London;
Knopf, 1927.

1 1 . Oscar Petersen, ‘Lpgnens Ansigter,’ Middagsposten , 24 August 1906.

12. See Wilhelm von Rosen, Mdnens Kulpr: Studier i dansk bpssehistorie 1628-1912, vol.
2, Copenhagen: Rhodos, 1993, pp. 729-30, 650 (n423).

13. Karl Kruse, ‘ S cedcl igheds -Skandalcn : Mandfolkeelskere paa vore Kasemer,’ Middags-
posten, , 27 November 1906.

14. See Rosen, Mdnens Kulpr , op. cit., pp. 653-4.

15. See ibid., pp. 702, 750.

16. Clara Pontoppidan, Een Liv - Mange Liv: Erindringer, vol. 2: 1910-1925, Copenhagen:
Westermann, 1950, pp. 16-7.

17. Pontoppidan, Een Liv..., vol. 1, op. cit., p. 202.

18. Lichtbiidbuhne , no. 23, 7 June 1913; emphasis in the original.

19. ‘Stellan Rye,’ ibid., p. 121.

20. Helmut H. Diederichs, Der Student von Prag : Einfiihrung und Protokoll, Stuttgart: Fo-
cus, 1985, p. 15.

21. Vivian Greene-Gantzberg, Herman Bang og det fremmede, Copenhagen: Gyldendal,
1992, p. 82.

22. Kai Moiler (ed.), Paul Wegener - Sein Leben und seine Rollen: Ein Buck von ihm und
iiber ihn, Reinbek: Rowohlt, 1954, p. 34.

23. Diederichs, Der Student von Prag, op. cit., p. 1 1.

24. Stellan Rye, ‘Teatrum mundi,’ Verdenspejlet 3, no. 35, p. 550; emphasis in the original.

25. See Georges Sadoul, Histoire Generale du Cinema, 2nd ed., vol. 3, Paris: Denoel, 1974,
p. 371.

26. Reinhold Keiner, Harms Heinz Ewers und der phantastische Film , Hildesheim: Olms,
1988, p. 34.

308 Notes

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27. Reprinted in Ludwig Greve, Margot Pehle, Heidi Westhoff (eds,), Hatte ich das Kino!
Die Schriftsteller und der Stummfilm, Munich: Kosel, 1976, p. 112.

28. Quoted in Keiner, Hanns Heinz Ewers , op. cit., pp. 33-4,

29. See Marguerite Engberg, ‘Den g&defulde Stellan Rye,’ Sekvens , 1982, p. 162.

30. Keiner, Hanns Heinz Ewers , op. cit., pp. 20, 28.

31. See ibid., pp. 29-30.

32. Er st e Internationale Film-Zeitung , no. 3, 17 January 1914.

33. Lkhtbild-Buhne , no. 3, 17 January 1914,

34. See letter by Octavia Rye to Ove Brusendorff, Collection of the Danish Film Museum,
File Stellan Rye.

35. Ibid.

36. Lotte Eisner, The Haunted Screen: Expressionism in the German Cinema and the Influ-
ence of Max Reinhardt, Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1973,
p. 45.

37. Lichtbild'Buhne, no. 80, 21 November 1914.

38. Letter by Poul Engelstoft to Ove Brusendorff, 7 July 1950, Collection of the Danish
Film Museum, file Stellan Rye.

homunculus: A Project for a Modern Cinema

1. From a press advertisment of the Deutsche Bioscop, Lichtbild-Buhne, no. 42, 1915.

2. Film Kurier, no. 183, 19 August 1920.

3. This is an adventure that would merit to be completed. As I am writing this text, I have
come to know of the existence of a nitrate copy of the first part of the film in the film
archive in Prague, with a length of 1126 m, in comparison to the 1588 m of the original
copy; 1 am grateful to Vladimir Opela for this valuable information.

4. Illustrierter Film-Kurier, no. 19, 1920. From the available cinema program notes I want
to mention in particular those in the collection of the Stiftung Deutsche Kinemathek,
Berlin.

5. For the figure of the superhuman in the feuilleton (and for the mentioned periodization
of its evolution) I refer to Umberto Eco and Cesare Sughi (eds.), Cent’anni dopo: II
ritorno delT intreccio , Milano: Almanacco Bompiani, 1971 and Umberto Eco, II supe-
ruomo di massa, Milano: Cooperativa Scrittori, 1976.

6. It is well known how Gramsci, in some of his famous reflections on the popular novel,
saw not only the ‘Nietzschean,’ but Nietzsche himself, indebted to the romanesque hero:
‘Wouldn’t Nietzsche be influenced by French popular novels? (...) In any case, it seems
that it can be confirmed that much of Nietzsche’s so-called “superhumanity" has as its
origin and doctrinal model not only Zarathustra, but also the Count of Monte Christo of
A. Dumas. 1 Antonio Gramsci, ‘Origine popolaresca del ‘superuomo,’ in Quaderni del
care ere, critical edition, ed. Valentino Gerratana, Torino: Einaudi, 1975, vol. 3, p. 1 879.

309 Notes

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7. At least according to the program of the film (part 3) of the Lichtspielhaus in Giessen,
preserved in the archive of the Stiftung Deutsche Kinemathek, Berlin.

8. This quote is to be found in the film program (Lichtspielhaus Giessen, part II) as well as
in Illustrierter Film-Kurier, op. cit.

9. The Frankenstein of Mary Shelley is in fact the essential point of reference by Reinert:
he takes from it also the motif of the hatred towards its creator who has condemned it to
unhappiness (because his affection cannot be returned - in homunculus because the
protagonist cannot experience sentiments), and, in short, towards the whole of humani-
ty.

10. This quote is again from the above cited program notes and refers to part II of the film.

1 1 . The doubling is even clearer in the 4th episode where the character acts at the same time
in the clothes of a government leader (the intertitles literally speak of a ‘Korperschaft’)
and those a peoples’ agitator who infuriates the masses against its alter ego, only to lead
them directly into their ruin.

12. Hlustrierter Film Kurier, op. cit.

13. Gr., ‘homunculus, 111. Teil,’ Der Film, no. 37, 1920, p. 37.

14. Jean Tortel, T1 romanzo popolare,’ in Eco and Sughi (eds.), Cent’anni dopo, op. cit., p.
34.

15. ‘homunculus, Teil II,’ Der Film , no. 36, 1920, p. 38. The reviewer notes only one
unique exception to this rule.

16. The film, ‘Parodistischer Scherz in 2 Akten,’ was presented by the Osterreichisch-Un-
garische Kino-Industrie; an article published in Die Filmwoche (no. 185, 1916, p, 46)
announced its release for 29 December 1916; the reprinted dates are taken from the
same source,

17. The whole story is in effect obsessively packed with rocks, caverns that give refuge to
the protagonist. It concerns again a rather favourite place in the popular adventurous
imagination. Here it seems to become at the same time an efficient symbolical configu-
ration of alienation of Homunculus from the human species, of its original diversity (a
bit like the ice in Frankenstein).

18. See Fritz Giittinger, Der Stummfilm im Zitat der Zeit, Frankfurt: Deutsches Filmmuse-
um, 1984, p. 153.

19. It is the aspect emphasised most often by those who have studied the film, and Eisner
above all,

20. Here we understand that the dark of the other half of the frame is in effect also the
indispensable support to host the visions of the character...

21. A sequence to which probably mention is made in an interview with Reinert: ‘Thus, the
scene called “Homunculus as Death the Knight visiting the Battlefield” was to have a
devastating impact.’ ‘Der Dichter des homunculus in Wien; Die Filmwoche, no. 175,
1916, p 50.

310 Notes

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22. See the program of the Lichtspielhaus Giessen, op. cit.

23. ‘homunculus, II. Teil,’ Lichtbild-Buhne, no. 38, 1916, p. 36.

24. ‘homunkulus, II. Teil,’ Die Filmwoche , no. 175, 1916, p. 50.

25. Gr., ‘homunculus (III. Teil), 'op, cit., p, 38.

26. In this sense the excellent work of Kristin Thompson in respect to the relations between
German fantasy film of the teens and twenties must be mentioned for its attribution
attributes of a central place to homunculus in this overview, see “‘Im Anfang war..
Some Links between German Fantasy Films of the Teens and the Twenties,’ in Paolo
Cherchi Usai and Lorenzo Codelti (eds.). Before Caligari: German Cinema, 1895-
1920 , Pordenone: Edizioni BibliotecadellTmmagine, 1990, pp. 142-148, Just as much,
as we will see later on, the Film holds a possible tie with theatrical tendencies of contem-
porary expressionism,

27. See ‘homunculus Lichtbild-Buhne, no. 18, 1916, p. 26; ‘homunculus!’ Lichtbild-
Biihne , no, 25, 1916, p. 21; ‘Die HOMUNCULUS-ldee,’ Die Filmwoche, no. 157, 1916.

28. ‘homunculus!’ Op. cit.

29. F.O, (= Fritz Olimsky), ‘Neue Filme,’ Berliner Borsen-Zeitung (undated clipping in the
Archive Stiftung Deutsche Kinemathek, Berlin).

30. See ‘Der Dichter des homunculus in Wien,’ op. cit. In relation to such processes of
involvement, the intervention contains in reality a devaluation of the role of the Autoren-
film. I have dealt with the complexity (and the contradiction) of the contemporary de-
bate on the Autorenfdm (particularly of Die Filmwoche ), in “‘Dichter heraus!” The Au-
torenfilm and the German Cinema of the 1910s,’ Griffithiana , no. 38/39, October 1990,
pp. 101-126. ‘Dieses Werk steht am Tore einer neuen Zeit der Lichtspielkunst,’ writes
the critic of the B.Z.am Mittag (in an article reprinted in Lichtbild-Buhne , no. 34, 1916,
p. 36).

3 1 . ‘Here we find the art of film, so many times disputed, attacked, and declared impossible.
(...) homunculus shows cinematography climbing the heights we call ‘Parnassus’ [!],’
‘homunculus!’ Op cit., p. 24.

32. Efen., ‘homunculus,’ Der Drache, no. 46, 11 August 1920, p. 9,

33. Max Prels, ‘Derkommende Film,’ Vorwdrts, 14 September 1921.

34. F.O., ‘Neue Filme,’ op. cit.

35. ‘homunculus, Teil II,’ op. cit.

36. The preceding expression is taken from Illustrierter Film-Kurier instead. All the subse-
quent spectators have remarked the affinity of this situation with that proposed 10 years
later in metropolis.

37. The episode is to be found in the beginning of the 5th part of the film.

38. Siegfried Kracauer, From Caligari to Hitler, Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press,
1947, p. 33.

39. ‘It is unlikely that one can find anywhere else in film history a nation at war making, at
the height of the fiercest enemy action, a film of such decidely pacifist tendencies,’ is the

3 II Notes

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judgement of Ilona Brennicke and Joe Hembus in their Klassiker des deutschen Stum-
mfilms 1910-1930, Munich: Goldmann, 1983, p. 194,

40. Hans Weissbach in Wustrierter Film-Kurier, op. cit.

41. Ml., ‘homunculus,’ Film und Presse , no. 7, 1920, p. 174.

42. See ‘Aus der Praxis, 7 Der i Cinematograph , no. 505, 1916; ‘Der Dichter des homunku-
lus in Wien, 7 op. cit.

43. See the review of the first part of the new version in Der Film , no. 35, 1920, and the
already cited lllustrierter Film-Kurier , and Film-Kurier. ‘The whole world was in awe
at the sight of such a monumental achievement by the then still youthful art of film. 7

44. A similar phenomenon occurred in the first version of der golem, accompanied (but
only in 1917) by the parodistic variation der GOLEM UND DIE tanzerin, directed and
interpreted and thus ‘authorized 7 - by Paul Wegener.

45. F.lw. in Der Tag , 21 August 1920 (quoted from Film und Presse , no. 8, 1920, p. 202).

46. Christian Fliiggen, ‘homunkulus , 7 Deutsche Lichtspiel-Zeitung, no. 30, 1920, p. 3; fl.
in Berliner Bdrsen-Courier, 22 August 1920 (quoted in Film und Presse , no. 8, op. cit.).

47. M.4., ‘homunkulus , 7 op. cit.

48. F.O., ‘Neue Filme, 7 o/?. cit.

49. See Efen, ‘homunculus , 1 op. cit.\ ‘homunculus,’ Der Drache , no. 47, 18 August
1920, p. 12.

50. 1 have alluded to this question in ‘Der Expressionismus als Filmgattung, 7 in Uli Jung and
Walter Schatzberg (eds.), Filmkultur zur Zeit der Weimarer Repub lik, Munich etc.; K.G.
Saur, 1992.

53. Robert Heymann, ‘Der Film als Briicke zur Romantik, 7 Der Film, no. 52, 1917, pp. 21-

22 .

52. Ibid.

Julius Pinschewer: A Trade-mark Cinema

1. Heinz Gies, ‘Gestaltungs- und Wirkungsweisen des Werbefilms,’ in Walter Hagemann
(ed.), Filmstudien , Emsdetten/Westf., 1957 (Beitrage des Filmseminars im Institut fur
Publizistik der westfalischen Wilhelms-UniversitSt Munster 3), p. 87.

2. Ingrid Westbrock, Der Werbefilm, Hildesheim, Zurich, New York, 1983 (Studien zur
Filmgeschichte 1), pp, 30ff.

3. Paul Effing, ‘Der Kinematograph als Reklamemittel, 7 Mitteilungen des Vereins Deui-
scher Reklamefachleute (Berlin), no. 20, August 191 1 , p. 3.

4. See the advertisement, ibid., p 25. See also nos. 21-23, September - November 191 1,

5. Editorial comment to William Besel, ‘Der Kinematograph als Reklamemittel, 7 Mit-
teilungen des Vereins Deutscher Reklamefachleute, no. 25, January 1912, pp. 16-18.

6. Julius Pinschewer, ‘Zur Geschichte des Werbefilms, 7 Der Markenartikel , vol, 16, May
1954, special edition. Archive Stiftung Deutsche Kinemathek, Berlin,

312 Nates.

Copyrighted material

7. Mitteilungen des Vereins Deutscher Reklamefachleute, no. 28, [April] 1912, p. 2 (‘Neu-
Anmeldungen’).

8. Mitteilungen des Vereins Deutscher Reklamefachleute, no. 42, Juli 1913, after page 256.
This advertisment was published in each issue until no. 47, December 1913, inclusively.

9. See Kurt Miihsam and Egon Jacobsohn (eds.), Lexikon des Films, Berlin: Verlag der
Lichtbildbuhne, 1926, p. 140.

10. Julius Pinschewer, ‘Zur Geschichte des Werbefilms,’ op. cit.

11. Julius Pinschewer, 4 Von den Anfangen des Werbefilms,’ Die Reklame, No. 2, June 1927,
p. 408.

12. Julius Pinschewer, ‘Filmreklame,’ Seidels Reklame, no. 8, August 1913, pp, 243-246.

13. Ibid.

14. Handelsregistereintrag No. 11891, 26 March 1913; quoted from Vossische Zeitung, 30
March 1913. 1 am grateful to Herbert Birett for this piece of information.

15. alt-heidelberg, du feine (1912), dir. Julius Pinschewer. See ‘Harry Walden in Alt-
Heidelberg,’ Lichtbild-Buhne, No. 30, 27 Juli 1912, pp. 16f.

16. Julius Pinschewer, ‘Vom Reklamefilm,’ Seidels Reklame , no. 6, 15 June 1914, pp. 273-
278 (with 8 illustrations).

17. Ibid.

18. Ibid.

1 9. ‘But the true publicity film hasn’t been achieved yet. What is currently presented to the
audience under this label, at our cinemas the “Pintschewer[sic!]-films” by name, is not
the right solution. They start off just like a little fiction film, only to burst out all too soon
with the real punch line, namely to convey the publicity in the most penetrant way pos-
sible. This soon caused the anger of the grumpy audience which demanded to see some-
thing worth the high admission prices.’ Hans-Ulrich Dorp, ‘Reklame durch den Film,’
Kino-Bdrse, no. 38, 24 September 1921.

20. William Besel, ‘Der Kinematograph als Werbemittel’, op. cit,

2 1 . ‘Der Film als Werbemittel. Stenografischer Bericht des Herm Julius Pinschewer, Berlin,
auf der Monatsversammlung des Vereins Deutscher Reklamefachleute, am 14. Mai
1 9 1 6 im Union-Theater gehaltenen Vortrages,’ Mitteilungen des Vereins Deutscher Rek-
lamefachleute, nos. 5/6, May/June 1916, pp. 1 15-1 18; See also ‘Der Film als Werbemit-
tel,’ Der Kinematograph, no, 490, 17 May 1916.

22. Ibid.

23. Ibid.

24. Julius Pinschewer, ‘Aus meiner Werkstatt,’ Mitteilungen des Vereins Deutscher Rek-
lamefachleute, nos. 5/6, May/June 1916, supplement, 4 pages.

25. Ibid.

26. See Julius Pinschewer, ‘Aus meiner Werkstatt,’ op. cit.

27. This seems to have been a widespread pattern in the early publicity film, according to a
description from early 1912 by William Besel of a publicity film for the ‘Confection-

313 Notes

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shaus Petersdorff in Posen that was released in the Spring of 1911. See Besel, ‘Der
Kinematograph als Werbemittel,' op. tit. Besel presents himself here as ‘founder and
owner of a company which is especially concerned with the production of cinemato-
graphic publicity.’

28. Fritz Kempe, Dokumente zur Geschichte des Werbeftlms: Beiheft zum Film. Munich:
Inst. f. Film und Bild in Wissenschaft und Unterricht, 1965.

29. Julius Pinschewer, ‘Politische Propaganda,’ Mitteilungen des Vereins Deutscher Rek -
lamefachleute, no. 2, February 1915, pp. 35-38.

30. Ibid.

3 1 . Kempe, op. tit., pp. 8f.

32. See Reichs-Kino-Adressbuch , Berlin 1918/19,

33. See also the events ‘Deutsche Kriegsanleihe-Werbefilme des 1. Weltkriegs’ (13 August
1994, Zeughaus-Kino, Berlin, and ‘Die Macht der Bilder. Kriegsanleihe-Werbefilme
L 916-1 8’ (27 March 1995, Caligari-FilmBiihne, Wiesbaden), as well as the information
material issued at this occasion organized by the present author.

34. See advertisment of the Vaterlandischer Filmvertrieb in Der Film, no. 10, 10 March
1917, pp. 6f,

35. For further information about these films, see the filmography of Jeanpaul Goergen,
‘Julius Pinschewer,’ in Hans-Michae! Bock (ed.), CineGmph: Lexikon zum deut-
schspraehigen Film, Munich: text & kritik, 1984ff, Lg. 25, June 1995.

36. Bundesarchiv (Potsdam) A. A, Zentralstelle fur Auslandsdienst, no. 942, p. 31.

37. Der Kinematograph , no. 590, 24 April 1918 (‘Aus der Praxis’).

38. Reichs-Kino-Adressbuch, Berlin, 1920/21.

39. Kempe, op. tit., p. 14.

Newsreel Images of the Military and War, 1914-1918

1 . Oskar Messter, Mein Weg mil dem Film, Berlin: Verlag Max Hesse, 1936, p. 128.

2. ‘Offenhalten und Weiterspielen,’ Lichthild-Biihne (LBB), no. 52, 15 August 1914, p. 7.
See also R. Flatz, Krieg im Frieden: Das aktuelle M Hit dr stuck auf dem Theater des
deutschen Kaiserreichs, Frankfurt/Main, 1 976, pp. 248ff.

3. ‘Das Programm in Kriegszeiten,’ Der Kinematograph, no. 405, 30 September 1914.

4. See for example G.A. Fritze, ‘Die Kinematographie im Dienste der Industrie,’ Bild und
Film, vol. 3, no. 6, 1913/14, pp. 124ff.

5. Oefle ‘Kinematographie fur Heereszwecke,’ Frankfurter Zeitung, no. 69, 10 March
1913, second morning issue.

6. ‘Mehr Anschauung im militarischen Unterricht,’ Film und Lichtbild, vol. 1 , no. 2, 1912;
pp. 9ff; Fritz Seitz, ‘Die Schlacht von Austerlitz im Film,’ Film und Lichtbild, vol. 1, no,
4, 1912, pp. 33ff.

7. See the essay by Martin Koerber elsewhere in this volume.

314

Notes

8. Ernst Jtinger, 'Die totale Mobilmachung," in: Krieg und Krieger , Berlin, 1930, pp. 9-30,
here p. 14,

9. Franz Carl Entires, Der Film als Mittel der politischen Berichter stattu.ng, Munich, 1915,
p. 55f. See also Oefle, op. at..

10. A. Mellini, 'Deutschland im Kriegszustand!,’ LBB, no. 48, 1 August 1914; 'Kino und
Krieg. Mars regiert die Stunde," Der Kinematograph, no. 397, 5 August 1914.

FL 'Aus dem Kampfe gegen franzosische Films," Projektion , no. 32-3, 20 August 1914.

12, See for example Malwine Rennert, ‘Nationale Filmkunst,’ Bild und Film , vol. IV, no. 3,
1914/15; ‘Film und neue deutsche Form," Der Kinematograph , no. 452, 25 August
1915; ‘Kinematographie und Krieg," Der Kinematograph , no. 447, 21 June 1915,

13, BA Militdrarchiv ( MA ) Reichsmarineamt (RM3), no. 9873, pp. 32ff. 60f.

14, ‘Kinos Offenbarung,’ Vorwdrts , no. 258, 21 September 1914; ‘Was die L.B.B. erzahlt,"
LBB, no. 50, 8 August 1914.

15, Walter Nicolai, Nachrichtendienst , Presse und Volksstimmung im We It krieg, Berlin,
1920, pp. 5 Iff; Ludolf Gottschalk von dem Knesebeck, Die Wahrheit iiher den Propa-
gandafeldzug und Deutschlands Zusammenbruch : Der Kampf der Puhlizistik im
Weltkriege, Berlin, 1927, p. 44.

16, See for example ‘Kinos Offenbarung," Vorwdrts, no. 258. 21 September 1914.

12. A. Mellini, ‘Das Monopol der Kriegsaufnahmen (II)," LBB, no. 78, 14 November 14,

IS, Gerlraude Bub, Der deutsche Film im Weltkrieg und sein publizistischer Einsatz, Berlin,
1938, p. 94,

19. A. Mellini, 'Das Monopol der Kriegsaufnahmen," in: LBB , no. 74, 3J October 1914; see
also Gertraude Bub, op. cit., p. 95-

20. ‘Zeitgemasse Films in den Berliner Theatem," Der Kinematograph, no. 408, 21 October
1914.

21. ‘Mangel an Aktualitaten," Der Kinematograph , no. 400, 26 August 1914; see also
Kriegs-EchoWochenchronik , nos. 1-9, Berlin: Ullstein & Co., 1914.

22. Hans-Joachim Giese, ‘Die Film-Wochenschau im Dienste der Politik," Leipziger Bei-
trage zur Erforschung der Puhlizistik , vol. 5, Dresden, 1 940, p. 39.

23. Walter Thielemann, ‘Der Kinematograph als Journalist," Der Kinematograph , no. 312,
18 December 1912; Oths, ‘Die kinematographische Zeitung," Der Kinematograph, no.
366, 31 December 1913; O. Th. Stein, ‘Der Kinematograph als modeme Zeitung," Bild
und Film, no. 2, 1913/14.

24. 'Der Mangel an Aktualitaten,’ Der Kinematograph, no. 400, 26 August 1914; ‘Die
schwere Lage," LBB, no. 60, 12 September 1914.

25. ‘Der Krieg und der zeitgemasse Film,’ LBB, no. 68, 10 October 1914.

26. For example: ‘messter Film berlin, 336 gr headquarters 887-1 140 w. come back from
front directly sent day before yesterday films made in most forward trenches under
shrapnel fire further films and report today - happily," Der Kinematograph, no. 70, 11
November 1914.

315 Notes

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27. ‘messter wqche nr. m, We have just received and viewed footage of the theatre of war
which shows attacks from the trenches and the great advances of our brave troops in
exceptional clarity for the first time. These pictures appear in our Messter newsreel and
will arouse justified sensation.’ Prujektion , no. 49,3 December 1914.

28. A, Mellini, ‘Das Monopol der Kriegsaufnahmen,’ LBB, no. 74, 31 October 1914.

29. A. Mellini, ‘Das Monopol der Kriegsaufnahmen (II),’ LBB, no. 70, 14 November 14,

30. ‘Der modeme Bilder-Nachrichtendienst, Das Kriegsbilder-Archiv,’ Der Kinemato-
graph , no. 409, 28 October 14.

31. ‘Neujahrs-Gedanken,’ LBB, no. L, 2 January 1915.

32. ‘Streifzuge durch die Branche,’ LBB, no. 6, 6 December 1915.

3X ‘Mehr Operateure an die Schlachtenfronten,’ LBB, no. 9, 27 January 1915.

34. ‘Mehr Kino-Operateure an die Schlachtenfronten,’ LBB, no. H, 13 March 1915.

35. F. Felix, ‘Kinematograph und Krieg,’ Bild und Film, no. 4/5. 1914/15.

36. Stefan Grossmann, ‘Das bitterste Kriegsbuch,’ Vossische Zeitung, no. 413, L5 August
1917.

37. ‘Das Ende der Kriegsaufnahmen,’ LBB, no. 12, 20 March 1915.

38. O. Th. Stein, ‘Lebendige Kriegsdokumente,’ Bild und Film, no. 7/8. 1914/15.

39. E.W., ‘Das Filmarchiv des Grossen Generalstabs, Was ein Kinooperateur erzahlt,’ Ber-
liner Tageblatt, no. 168, J April 1915, evening edition.

40. BA MA RML no. 3798, 50ff.

41. William Kahn, ‘Von friedlichen “Kriegsfilms” und anderen Films,’ Deutsche Kinorund -
schau im Weltkrieg, no. 13, 1915.

42 Ibid. In general, however, even the most meaningless of film images from the war bear
a striking resemblance to the combat or battle scene illustrations found in the press. At
least there the lack of photographs caused by the censors could be partly compensated
for by drawings or paintings.

43. Wolfgang Filzinger, ‘Etwas iiber Kino-Aufnahmen im Felde,’ LBZ?, no. 3k, 1 July 1915.

44. BA Reichsministerium des Innern (RMdl), no. 14033, p. J 10,

45, ‘As large as the battlefields may be, they have little to offer the viewer. There is nothing
to see in this wasteland. If it weren’t for the thunder of shots deafening you, only the
weak fire of guns betrays the presence of the artillery.’ Alfred von Schlieffen, ‘Der Krieg
in der Gegenwart,’ in Gesammelte Schriften, vol. F, Berlin, 1913, p. L5,

46, O. Th. Stein, ‘Kinematographische Krieg sberichterstattung,’ Film und Licht bild, no. 3.

1914, pp. 42ff. ‘Der deutsche Kaiser sieht zum ersten Male eine wirkliche Schlacht,’
Der Kinematograph, no. 365, 24 December 1913.

42. ‘Kieferverletzungen im Kriege und ihre Heilung,’ LBB , no. 78* 14 November 14; ‘Der
Film als Lehrmittel fur Kriegsbeschadigte,’L5B, no. 11, 13 March 1915; ‘Film im Dien-
ste der Fiirsorge fiir Kriegskruppel,’ LBB, no. 4, 10 April 1915.

48, ‘Der Kriegshund und seine Verwendung im Winterfeldzuge,’ LBB, no. 4, 23 January

1915.

316 Notes

Copyrighted material

49. BA RWM, no. 8031, p. 18.

50. See for example descriptions of relevant advertising films: ‘Das Kino im Dienste der
Filmpropaganda fur die Kriegsanleihe. Ein Hindenburgfilm,’ Der Film, no. 35, 23 Sep-
tember 1916; Zeichnet die Kriegsanleihe , no, 38, 22 September 1917; ‘Kriegsanleihe-
filme,’ Der Kinematograph, no, 562, 3 October 1917.

5\.BAAA ZfA , no. 947, 317; W, Th„ ‘Der Film als Agitator/ LBB, no. 47, 25 November
1916.

52. ‘Der deutsche Flottenverein und der Film,’ LBB, no. 18, 5 May 1917.

53. BA RPM, no. 4727, 7ff.; Hans Barkhausen, Filmpropaganda fur Deutschland im Ersten
und Zweiten Weltkrieg, Hildesheim/Ziirich/New York, 1982, p. 71.

54. ‘Das Kino als Bindeglied zwischen Heimat und Front,’ Der Film , no. 33, 9 September
1916.

55. BA MA RM 3 , no. 9876, pp. 79f.

56. See Hans Joachim Giese, op. cit., p. 41.

57. BA RMdl, Nr. 14033, p. 156.

58. BA Reichspostministerium , no. 4727, pp. 2-3.

59. Wilhelm Deist (ed.), Militdr und Innenpolitik im Weltkrieg 1914-1918 , Diisseldorf:
Droste, 1970, pp. XL-XLI.

60. See for example Nipperdey, Deutsche Geschichte 1866-1918, vol. 1: Arheitswelt und
Biirgergeist , Munich: C. H. Beck, 1991, pp. 814-5.

61. W. Fr., ‘Das Beiprogramm,’ Der Film, vol. 2, no. 17, 28 April 1917.

62. ‘Das Kino im Dienste des vaterlandischen Gedankens,’ Der Film , vol. 2, no. no. 21, 26
May 1917.

63. BA AA ZfA , no. 948, p. 97.

64. kn., ‘Echte Kriegsfilms. Aufnahmen der Militarischen Photo- und Filmabteilung,’ Vos-
sische Zeitung, no. 628, 8 December 1916.

65. See extensively Rainer Rother, ‘bei unseren helden an der somme: Eine deutsche
Antwort auf die Entente-Propaganda,’ KINtop 4: Anfange des dokumentarischen Films ,
Basel/Frankfurt: Stroemfeld/Roter Stem, 1995, pp. 123ff.

66. BA AA ZfA, no. 1030, pp. 86ff; see also Barkhausen, op. cit., pp. 46ff.

67. BA AA ZfA, no. 973, p. 5, 13.

68. BA AA ZfA, no. 956, pp. 36f.

69. See Die Verwendung und Veredelung des Bewegungsbildes. Das Wandelbild im Heer,’
lilustrirte Zeitung ( Leipzig), vol. 150, no. 3889, 10 January 1918; see also O.Th. Stein,
‘Lebendige Kriegsdokumente,’ Bild und Film, vol. 4, no. 7/8, 1914/1915.

70. See Bemd Huppauf, ‘Kriegsfotografie,’ in Wolfgang Michalka (ed.), Der Erste
Weltkrieg: Wirkung, Wahrnehmung, Analyse, Munich/Zurich, 1994, pp, 883ff,

71. ‘Der Isonzosieg im Film,’ Vossische Zeitung, no. 575, 10 November 1917.

72. BA AA ZfA, no. 955, p. 146; Reichswirtschaftsministerium , no. 8031, p. 27.

73. ‘Beratungen im Reichsministerium des lnnem. Zur Frage des kurzen Films,’ LBB, vol.

317 Notes

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9, no, 49, 9 December 1916; see also Barkhausen, op. cit., p. 105.

74. BA MA SA, no. 12856, p. 91.

75. BA AA ZfA , no. 973, p. 5.

76. BA AA ZfA , no. 973, pp. 13ff.

77. ‘Bilanz und Ausblick,’ Der Kinematograph, no. 627, 8 January 1919.

Learning from the Enemy:

German Film Propaganda in World War I

1. Quoted in Gerd Albrecht, Film im Dritten Reich: Eine Dokumentation , Karlsruhe, 1979,
pp. 72-3.

2. Ernst Collin, ‘Aus anderen Blattem,’ Das Plakat, vol. 10, no. 1 (1919) p. 70. This inci-
dental remark corresponds to an essay published somewhat later by Hermine C.
Schuetzinger, ‘Angelsachsischer und deutscher Chauvinismus in der politischen Bil-
dreklamef Das Plakat , vol. 10, no. 2 (1919): ‘There was absolutely no option left un-
tried by the English or the Americans to sway the public through poster images. Where-
as we had only near the end the Erdt’sche Hilfsdienstplakat which formed a limited and
dull illustration for a thousand kinds of plain text posters, in England and America col-
ourful sheets had long been plastered on the walls and pillars with sometimes rather
good depictions of the duties of the new army.’ (p. 145).

3. For the history of the founding of both institutions, see Hans Barkhausen, Filmpmpa-
ganda in Deutschland im Ersten und Zweiten Weltkrieg, Hildesheim: Olms, 1982.

4. Potsdam Federal Archive , item R 901 , file 949 p. 45. The memorandum is dated 1 1 July
1917. Other embassy representatives, in addition to Kessler, expressed a wish for better
propaganda ; the corresponding files are filled with similar instances. The tenor does not
vary much during the entire war; the reports suggest that foreign representatives of the
German Reich either did not receive enough films or did not feel able to make particu-
larly effective propaganda with what they did receive.

5. The discussion document can be found in the Potsdam Federal Archive , file 95 1, pp.
170ff. All following citations derive from this source.

6. Ibid., pp. 175-6.

7. It seems to be a clear exaggeration when Ramona Curry writes that Porten’s image
‘played a major role in promoting German nationalist politics in the conduct of the First
World War, as did the German film industry as a whole.’ Ramona Curry, ‘How Early
German Film Stars Helped Sell the War(es),’ in Karel Dibbets and Bert Hogenkamp
(eds.). Film and the First World War , Amsterdam: University of Amsterdam Press, 1995,
p, 146. Curry overlooks in her interpretation of the symbolically (and in this case also
factually) remarkable appearance of Henny Porten in film how small the contribution of
the film industry to effective film propaganda really was. This contribution remained so
small, less from reluctance (as willingness could be assumed) than from incompetence,

318 Notes

Copyrighted material

that the BuFA had an effectively negative output.

8. The film was first censored under the title der feldarzt, see Herbert Birett (ed.j,
Verzeichnis in Deutschland gelaufener Filme , Munich: K.G. Saur, 1980, pp. 409 and
421.

9. Argus in Der Kinematograph, no. 577, 23 January 1918; quoted from Hans-Michael
Bock (ed.), PaulLeni: Grafik, Theater, Film , Frankfurt am Main: Deutsches Filmmuse-
um, 1986, p. 251.

10. Statements from Herbert Birett, Verzeichnis in Deutschland gelaufener Filme, op, cit., p,
441 and Hans-Michael Bock and Michael Toteberg (eds.). Das Ufa-Buch, Frankfurt am
Main: Zweitausendeins, 1992, p. 34. The film is considered missing. Reconstruction
was made possible by the discovery of a copy with Dutch intertitles saved in a private
collection. The incomplete copy was restored by Kevin Brownlow, Photoplay Produc-
tions London, by the use of additional material from Gosfilmofond Moskau. The current
copy (English intertitles) has a length of 1350 m.

11. Both of them had worked often on propaganda films. For example, Brennert had also
written the screenplay for das tagebuch des dk. hart, on which Kraly worked as
assistant director,

12. In particular, the film civilisation (Thomas Ince, 1916) was considered as a dangerous,
anti-German film, Cf. Potsdam Federal Archive, file 948, pp. 28 Iff,

13. The boundary between "documentary films’ and ‘feature films’ is necessarily problem-
atic. During World War I, however, at least the form of the fictional film was stable,
although with national differences. In addition, the public showed a wide-ranging inter-
est in films which, without casting doubt on their plausibility, presented ‘authentic’ pic-
tures from the frontline. As the characteristic which makes a film ‘documentary’ does
not depend on its structure or the source of its images alone, but also on how the public
attributes this quality, the ‘birth’ of the documentary film happened during World War I.
Here the interest in authentic images played such a role that obviously staged pictures as
well as those found to be too bare were rejected - to the advantage of films considered
documentary, which however did not shrink in the least from fakery and staging.

14. A.B., ‘Der deutsche Somme-Film,’ Der Reichsbote, 23 January 1917.

15. The author was Hans Brennert, see B.Z. am Mittag, 17 January 1917. For a more exten-
sive discussion of the film and its reception in the Berlin press, see Rainer Rother, ‘bei
unseren helden an der somme (1917): The Creation of a “Social Event.” ’ Historical
Journal of Film, Radio and Television, vol. 15, no. 4, October 1995, pp. 533-550,

16. Both films were shown in 1993 in Bologna as part of the festival ‘II Cinema Rittrovato.’
The dating of the first one has not been confirmed, and the production company is un-
known. The second was released by Pathe in 1915.

17. Die Woche , no, 6, 10 February 1916. The article ‘Krieg und Film’ was written by Felix
Neumann (‘Hauptmann im Kriegspresseamt’). His semi-official critique was, however,
supported by independent journalists, as ‘a document from the great and serious period

319 Notes

Copyrighted material

of the World War’ (8 Uhr Abendblatt , 20 January 1917) or ‘unadorned excerpts from a
terrible reality’ (Tagliche Rundschau, 20 January 1917).

18. Cf. Potsdam Federal Archive, file 949, p. 323, where the report from Copenhagen is
reproduced, according to which the battle of the ancre had to be ‘removed from the
programme after just a few days.’

19. For the reception of the longer war films and their supposed propagandistic effect, see
Nicholas Reeves, ‘The Power of Film Propaganda - Myth or Reality?’ Historical Jour-
nal of Film, Radio and Television, vol. 13, no. 2, 1993, pp. 181-201.

20. BuFA memorandum , 14 november 1917, op. cit., pp,170ff.

The Reason and Magic of Steel: Industrial and Urban Dis-
courses in DTE POLDIHUTTE

1 . The only known print seems to be the one held at the Netherlands Filmmuseum, and in
its present version probably dating from after the War, with Dutch intertitles: ‘De staal-
gieterijen Poldihutte, tijdens den wereldoorlogg Belangwekkende wetenschappelijke
opnamen.' The credits are ‘Germany (Messter-Film) 1916, dir: ?, length 101 1,4 metres.

2. Marshall Deutelbaum, ‘Structural Patterning in the Lumiere Films,’ Wide Angle, vol. 3,
no. 1, 1979, p. 35.

3. Allan Williams, ‘The Lumiere Organization and “Documentary Realism,’” in John Fell
(ed.). Film Before Griffith, Berkeley et a).: University of California Press, 1983, p. 155.

4. William Uricchio, The Kulturfdm: A Brief History of an Early Discursive Practice,’ in
Paolo Cherchi Usai and Lorenzo Codefli (eds.), Before Caligari: German Cinema,
1895-1920 , Pordenone: Edizioni Biblioteca delTmmagine, 1990, pp. 358-360.

5. See Uricchio, op. cit., pp. 364-366. The inclusion of Wanderkinos in the sites of exhibi-
tion is a contribution from an article by Scott Curtis, The Taste of a Nation: Training
the Senses and Sensibility of Cinema Audiences in Imperial Germany,’ Film History,
vol. 6, no. 4, 1994, pp. 453-454.

6. Sabine Hake, The Cinema's Third Machine: Writing on Film in Germany, 1907-1933,
Lincoln; Nebraska University Press, 1993, p. 31.

7. Uricchio, op. cit., p. 366.

8. Ibid., pp. 366-368.

9. Wolfgang Miihl-Benninghaus, ‘Changes in German Cinematography during World War
One,’ unpublished paper given at the Film and the First World War : International IAM-
HIST Conference , Amsterdam, 5-1 1 July 1993, p. 9.

10. Uricchio, op. cit., pp. 370-372.

1 1. On Julius Pinschewer, see Jeanpaul Goergen’s essay above.

12. Hake, op. cit., pp. 11-13.

)3.1bid.,p. 364.

14. See MiihLBenninghaus, op. cit., p. 7.

320 Notes

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15. See Hake, op. cit p. 40.

16. Uricchio, op. cit., p. 370.

17. Ibid., p. 372.

18. Tom Gunning, ‘The Cinema of Attractions: Early Film, Its Spectator and the Avant-
Garde,’ in Thomas Elsaesser (ed.), Early Cinema: Space, Frame, Narrative, London:
BFI Publishing, 1990, pp. 57-59.

19. Gunning, op. cit., p. 61.

20. Tom Gunning, ‘The World as Object Lesson: Cinema Audiences, Visual Culture and the
St. Louis World’s Fair, 1904,’ Film History , vol. 6, no. 4, 1994, p. 427.

21. Gunning, ‘The World as Object Lesson,’ op. cit., pp. 433-434.

22. Ibid., pp. 435-437.

23. Ibid., p. 425.

24. Ibid., p. 439.

25. See Deniz Gokturk’s essay elsewhere in this volume and also her ‘Market Globalization
and Import Regulations in Imperial Germany,’ in Karel Dibbets and Bert Hogenkamp
(eds.). Film and the First World War, Amsterdam; Amsterdam University Press, 1995, p.
190.

26. Peter Wollen, ‘Cinema/Americanism/the Robot,’ in James Naremore and Patrick Bran-
dinger (eds.). Modernity and Mass Culture, Bloomington: Indiana University Press,
1991, p. 43.

27. See Stephen Bottomore, ‘Shots in the Dark-The Real Origins of Film Editing,’ in El-
saesser (ed.). Early Cinema, op. cit., pp. 104-110.

28. Frederick Taylor’s The Principles of Scientific Management, published in 191 1, was a
labor study of exemplary gestures adjusting the worker to the efficiency and predictabil-
ity of the machine. One of Taylor’s followers, Frank B. Gilbreth, analyzed human move-
ment through a special motion picture camera which took successive photographs or
chronocyclegraphs. Gilbreth ’s resulting application of workers picking up and laying
bricks was a direct descendant of Muybridge’s motion study of a galloping horse. See
Stephen Kern, op. cit., pp. 116-117.

29. Thomas Elsaesser, ‘Introduction - Early Film Form: Articulations of Space and Time,’ in
Elsaesser (ed.). Early Cinema, op. cit., p. 17.

30. Wollen, op. cit., p. 53.

31 . Gunning, ‘The World as Object Lesson,’ op. cit., p. 427.

32. A similar ‘Hall of Machinery’ can be found in the contemporary instance of NASA’s
space performance, a magical science theater of its own, which also suppresses the
shadow of an explosion,

33. Walter Benjamin, ‘The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction,’ reprinted
in Gerald Mast and Marshall Cohen (eds.). Film Theory and Criticism : Introductory
Readings, New York: Oxford University Press, 1974, p. 629.

34. Charles Musser, ‘The Travel Genre in 1903-1904: Moving Towards Fictional Narrative,’

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in Elsaesser, Early Cinema., op. cit., p. 123,

35. See Noel Burch, ‘Narrative/Diegesis - Thresholds, Limits,’ Screen, vol. 23, no. 2, July/
August 1982, p. 18.

36. Musser, op. cit., pp. 127-128.

37. See William Uricchio, Ruttman s ‘ Berlin Symphony’ and the City Film to 1930, Ann
Arbor: UMI Research Press, 1982, p. 68.

38. Ibid,, p. 81.

39. James Donald, ‘The City, The Cinema: Modem Spaces,’ in Chris Jenks (ed.), Visual
Culture, London: Routledge, 1995, p. 80.

40. Ibid., p. 78.

41. Ibid., p. 81.

42. Goktiirk, ‘Market Globalization,’ op. cit., p. 190.

43. Hake, op. cit., pp. 91-95,

44. Donald, op. cit., p. 85.

45. Uricchio, Ruttman s Berlin, op, cit., p. 88.

46. Ibid.

47. Kristin Thompson, ‘The International Exploration of Cinematic Expressivity,’ in Dib-
bets and Hogenkamp (eds,), Film and the First World War, op. cit., pp. 65-85.

48. Kristin Thompson, Tm Anfang War... some links between German fantasy films of the
Teens and the Twenties,’ in Cherchi Usai and Codelli (eds.), Before Caligari, op. cit., p.
154.

49. Elsaesser, ‘Introduction,’ op. cit., p. 17.

Max Mack:

The Invisible Author

1. Max Mack, ‘Wie ich zum Film kam,’ Die Lichtbildbuhne (LBB), no. 21, 24 May 1919,
p. 24: ‘If anybody should ever make the effort of writing a history of the German film,
then a true expert of the matter will surely not want to pass by my first creations without
notice.’

2. See Siegfried Kracauer, From Caligari to Hitler: A Psychological History of the Ger-
man Film, Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1947, pp. 33-4. Also see Heide
Schliipmann, Unheimlichkeit des Blicks: Das Drama desfriihen deutschen Kinos , Basel
and Frankfurt: Stroemfeld/Roter Stem, 1990, pp. 108-1 13.

3. Max Mack, ‘Modeme Filmregie,’ LBB, no. 7, 1920, p. 13: ‘Between the audience and
the film author a tacit agreement exists about venturing ever more deeply into the inner-
most problems of mind, soul and the senses. Does it not therefore stand to reason that
the director is doing his best to keep pace with them? More than that, would he not want
to provide the appropriate platform on which these battles can take place? After all, the
director is the bom mediator between author and audience: only he can infuse with

322 Notes

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blood the poets’ dreams, loosen the actors’ tongues - if this bold mataphor can be ap-
plied to a silent art - and turn the receptive auditorium into the ideal spectator, a process
for which Greek tragedy required the chorus/

4. Max Mack, With a Sigh and a Smile: A Showman Looks Back , London: Alliance Press,
1943, p. 35.

5. See ‘Das Motiv. Fachwissenschaftliche Hinweise von Max Mack,’ L BB , vol. 7, no, 6, 7
Feb 1914, p. 11: ‘Among the many talents the modem cinematic director has to com-
bine, pictorial vision is one of the most necessary and perhaps the one most often ig-
nored, (...) Apart from an innate pictorial predisposition there must be a trained eye, a
steady apprenticeship of the look (...).’

6. See ibid., p. 12: ‘In conclusion, I want to draw your attention to the eminent importance
which framing has in Film photography.’ Also see Max Mack, Wie komme ich zum Film?
Berlin: Reinhold Kuhn, 1919, p. 21: ‘(F)ilm is above all a matter of photography. This
means: it does not bring onto the screen the beautiful soul, but the material body, the
exterior world. And the problem of material appearance is the first, the central question
one has to answer in order to be successful in film at all/

7. In his chapter on ‘Film Direction’ in Wie komme ich zum Film , Mack has described in
great detail the importance of character movement for the transformation of a literary
model into the performative space of the cinema: ‘The director (...) has to make sure that
the unity of the photoplay is preserved, that the transition between the individual scenes
is continuous, that the pace of the film is kept flowing. It sounds so easy: keeping the
pace flowing - but oh how difficult this is in actual practice. Let me single out just one of
the many ball scenes. The script says: “Boisterous ball atmosphere. Lissy enters in ex-
cellent mood, when suddenly she spots her husband.” That’s all! The film author has
done his job, however rudimentary. The general course of the action is defined - now it
is a matter for the director to conjure a vivid image from these meager words. How this
is done is probably best illustrated by illustrating my own practice. First of all, the direc-
tor must have an idea of the overall course of the scene, of the individual events, but not
necessarily in all the minor details. Then he contacts the ‘artistic advisors/ Together
with the art director he discusses the location and the different spaces. They have to be
appropriate for the action he is about to film in them. A ballroom isn’t just a square room
with a couple of doors. Things are not that simple. What one wants to conjure up is not
the sight of a few dancing couples, but the atmosphere, the magic of a ball. So I have an
expansive ball staircase leading from a raised platform down into the hall. The orchestra
plays in a spacious alcove. A gallery winds itself around the hall at a certain height,
interrupted by a few lateral boxes. Exits to the right and to the left, which lead to bright-
ly-lit side rooms. Once transformed like this, you can really do something with the
space. I have several choices of entrances and exits. I have a big gallery which I can use
for interrupting shots. And I have a couple of lateral boxes for making all sorts of con-
nections.

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Now I let thirty, forty couples dance. Then I choose a group of ladies and gentlemen who
enter the hall when I call "one,” join the exactly defined couples, mingle to blend with
the line, disengage and exit through a side door. In the meantime my group "two" has
entered, consisting of ten waiters, all symmetrically waving their napkins and holding
out in front of them champagne bottles on their trays. On another command, more cou-
ples come dancing in, appearing from other entrances, rendered in long shot. On com-
mand "five ” the couples who passed through the dancers on command “one” to disap-
pear in the wings have reappeared on the gallery, disturbing the whispering couples
there, and throwing confetti down on the crowd. At the same time, the boxes have filled
up, the waiters are onee more rushing in and pour the champagne. Below, in the hall a
couple has in the meantime attracted broad admiration and applause with their step-
dancing. People are standing in a circle around them, imitating the rhythm of every
movement. The dance is coming to an end, the band is playing louder, and everyone
joins for the last few steps. This is the appropriate moment to let the plot begin.’ (pp,
68ff.)

8. A piece of information not given in the film as it has come down to us, but in a contem-
porary plot-synopsis; seeLSZf, no. 24, 15 June 1912, p. 36.

9. This spectacular variation of the suicide to end a melodramatic narrative was much in
evidence in the German cinema of the early teens. Apart from numerous still extant
films and/or plot synopses in the contemporary trade press, this is also illustrated by the
fact that in 1912 a newly established site for location shooting meant to attract produc-
tion companies by hinting at the fact that it included a bridge which would be ‘wonder-
fully suited for depictions of suicide.’ In Das Lichtspieltheater, 25 April 1912; quoted in
Adolf Sellmann, Der Kinemato graph alsVoIkserzieher? Langensalza: Hermann Beyer
& Sbhne, 1912, p. 19.

10. Edward Branigan has described such a gap between screen and story space as a visible
marker of the narrational process that ‘leads to degrees and kinds of “impossible” space;
that is, to space which cannot be justified as existing wholly within the diegesis.’ Ac-
cording to Branigan, ‘impossible spaces’ in turn lead to ‘perceptual problems of a new
kind that force the spectator to reconsider prior hypotheses about time and causality.’
See his Narrative Comprehension and Film , London: Routledge, 1992, p. 44. For a
similar terminological distinction between ‘story space’ and ‘discourse space’ see Sey-
mour Chatman, Story and Discourse: Narrative Structure and Film , Ithaca: Cornell
University Press, 1978, pp. 97-8.

1 1 . See Tom Gunning, ‘Weaving a Narrative: Style and Economic Background in Griffith’s
Biograph Films,’ in Thomas Elsaesser with Adam Barker (eds,), Early Cinema: Space ,
Frame, Narrative, London: BF1 Publishing, 1990, pp. 343-4. For an extensive discus-
sion of early examples, see also Gunning, D.W, Griffith and the Origins of American
Narrative Film: The Early Years at Biograph, Urbana and Chicago: University of
Illinois Press, 1991, pp. 85-129.

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12. According to Herbert Birett, between 1908 and 1911, 109 Griffith films were released
(or at least submitted to the censorship board) in Germany, including Gunning’s prime
examples for ‘psychological editing,’ sunshine sue (1910) and Enoch arden (1911);
see Birett, Das Filmangebot in Deutschland 1895-1911, Munich: Winterberg Verlag,
1991 (for the two mentioned titles, pp. 161 and 595),

13. This shot has a duration of 96 seconds. It is interesting to note the tendency of zweimal
gelebt to retain a coherent shot space in key moments of the narrative, which is reflect-
ed in the extreme duration of the opening shot (70 s), shot 9 (66 s), shot 24 (83 s; the
depiction of the mother’s crisis), shot 46 (69 s; the shot in which the female protagonist
and her former family nearly meet while taking a boat trip), and shot 50 (the final en-
counter of the two parties). The long shot duration is always paired with medium long,
long, or very long framing. The fact that the film’s narration makes no use of closer
framing to manipulate the viewer’s attention for relevant actions and create the sense of
suspense and character psychology, once more reinforces the impression of an ‘alterna-
tive style.’

14. The activation of offscreen space by the look of a character here as throughout the film
differs obviously from ‘classical’ modes of visual representation in the cinema, where
an imaginary activity constantly refers it back to the screen in creation of a coherent
diegesis; by contrast, and as an important element of the alternative spatial codification
in zweimal gelebt, off-screen space remains invisible and its activation by the gaze is
to signify the characters’ memories of an absent object or experience.

15. For Noel Burch ‘the autarky and unity of each frame’ and ‘the non-centered quality of
the image’ are the primary reasons for his conclusion that ‘The Primitive Cinema at its
most characteristic is ab-psychological,’ (emphasis in original) See his ‘Primitivism and
the Avant-Gardes: A Dialectical Approach,’ in Phil Rosen (ed.), Narrative , Apparatus,
Ideology: A Film Theory Reader , New York: Columbia University Press, 1986, p. 487.

16. Early German cinema’s transition to the long narrative film has traditionally been de-
scribed in terms of ‘literarisation.’ Apart from the huge amount of literature on the phe-
nomenon of the Autorenfilm, see e.g. Anton Kaes, ‘The Debate about Cinema: Charting
a Controversy (1909-1929),’ New German Critique, no. 40, Winter 1987, esp. p. 9 and
Joachim Paech, Literatur und Film, Stuttgart: Metzler, 1988.

17. See the extremely instructive comparative table in Barry Salt’s essay below.

1 8. ‘The opening sequence is the visiting card of the film director. Before the colourful play
begins, a gentleman bows and takes a call, smiling at the audience with friendly reserva-
tion, stroking his dog with napoleonic seriousness or agonizingly browsing through the
manuskript. This is the film director who in this very unobtrusive manner hammers into
the brains of the audience that he is the maker of this world. Usually the actors, too,
follow with a sweet smile and sometimes, in the big hits, also the film author, deeply
absorbed in his thoughts, bent over his writing desk. The opening sequence deals with
everything in the film. Presentation, taking a call, making a bow; in short, all those

325 Notes

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captivating vanities of the stage. And the audience is by now so used to it that popular
directors are made welcome by a w arm round of applause the very moment their faces
appear on the screen/ Max Mack, ‘Die Toilette des Films,’ in Mack (ed.), Die zappelnde
Leinwand , Berlin: Verlag von Dr Eysler & Co., 1916, pp. 124-5.

From Peripetia to Plot Point: Heinrich Lautensack and

ZWEIMAL GELEBT

1 . See the poster from the Frankfurter Film-Compagnie in Lichtb'rfdbuhne , no. 25, ] 91 2, p.
24, which expressively emphasizes that ‘this programme (of a total length of approxi-
mately 1 ,600 metres) [contains] a two-acter.’ See also Corinna Muller, Friihe deutsche
Kinematographie , Stuttgart and Weimar: Metzler, 1994, pp. 161-2, who notes that, as
far as Messter’s production is concerned, the ‘drama’ in particular - the main product of
narrative cinema at the time - ‘was often a two-acter’ in 1912. We are sorely lacking a
precise indication oflength for a two- or three-act fdm. The available statistics of Ger-
man Film production until 1919 give production figures in ‘acts’ as units of length.

2. On the early history of scriptwriting in Germany see Jurgen Kasten, Film Schreiben :
Fine Geschichte des Drehbuches, Vienna: Hora Verlag, 1 990, pp. 14-46, and Alexander
Schwarz, Der geschriebene Film: Drehbiicher des deutsche n und russischen Stumm-
fdms, Munich: diskurs fdm, 1994, pp. 26-74.

3. This is claimed in Ludwig Greve, Margot Pehle, Heidi Westhoff (eds.), Hdtte ich das
Kino! Die Schriftstelier und das Kino , Munich: Kosel Verlag, 1976, p. 101.

4. Reprinted in Kurt Pinthus (ed.), Das Kinobuch (1914), Frankfurt: Fischer Taschenbuch-
verlag, 1983, pp. 133-47. Pinthus changed the specific staging technique of the script,
partly for the ease of the reader. Lautensack ’s handwritten manuscript is in Munich’s
city library (for details on these changes see Schwarz, op. cit., pp, 1 17-20).

5. zweimal gelebt, approximate length 672m, dir. Max Mack, cast: Eva Speyer- Stocke l
(woman), Anton Ernst Riickert (her husband). Censored 12 June 1912. Complete ban.
Premiere: unknown. The existing copy is in the collection of Jean Desmet, the interna-
tional fdm distributor, in the Archive of the Nederlands Filmmuseum, Amsterdam, and
is 560.9 m in length. The original script is apparently lost.

6. The family being threatened by a technical object comes up in other films. In weih-
Nachtstraume (1910) a child is also run over by a car, turning the mother into an
alcoholic. In tragodie fines streiks (1912) a strike cuts off the entire electricity sup-
ply, making it impossible for the hospital to perform any operations, with the tragic
result that the child of one of the working-class couples dies.

7. In die erzieherin (1911) a horse and cart comes close to running over the young
daughter of an upper-class family. The governess, who had been dismissed by the family
after a liaison with their eldest son, saves the child and is re-employed by the family.

8. See Michael Wedel, ‘“Kino-Dramen”: Narrative and Space in Early German Feature

326 Notes

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Films, 19 12-1919 University of Amsterdam: unpubl. MA thesis, 1993, pp. 47-58.

The fact that Lautensack had some experience of arranging linkages between temporal
and plot elements in the narrative as early as 1 9 1 2/1 3 is clear in zwischen himmel und
erde, in which an interesting sequence shows the four main characters who may be
separate, but all long for the climax (frame 21-24). In Pinthus, op. cit 1983, pp. 139-
40). In das 1ST der krieg the author combines scenes like the last-minute rescue se-
quence, involving the siege and the advancing liberation of a surrounded military com-
pany (see Lichtbild-Buhne, no. 19, 1913, p. 30).

9. On the substitution and spatial organization of characters in zweimal gelebt see
Michael Wedel’s essay above.

1 0. Lautensack also uses a similar character and conflict construction in zwischen himmel
und erde (frame 9, in Pinthus, Das Kinobuch, op. cit., p. 137). Here the revelation of
an intense emotion at an inappropriate moment triggers the action-packed intrigue of a
tale of jealousy. In this script Lautensack once again delineates the inner action in great
detail.

1 1. See Urban Gad, Der Film: Seine Mittel, seine Ziele, Berlin, n.d, (1920, first Danish
edition 1919), pp. 41-2.

12. The normative plot points principle held up in American scriptwriting manuals as the
central dramaturgical mode of the classical narrative cinema was first questioned by
German script- writing theorists. Peter Hant, in his Das Drehbuch: Praktische Film-
dramaturgie , Waldeck, 1 992, p. 20, describes precisely the method adopted by Lauten-
sack in zweimal gelebt: ‘Plot point 1 leads to the confrontation in the second act. Plot
point 2 leads to the climax and the resolution.’

13. In der schatten des meeres Henny Porten follows, in the closing shot, the appearance
of her dead loved one in the sea. Her longing for love and her dissatisfaction with the
reality of her everyday existence are made very clear.

14. An association which was probably also essential to the censor’s banning of the film. In
the censor’s summary a whole sentence is dedicated to this predicament, namely the
endangering of the family through a bigamist relationship.

15. Published versions of these three plays are included in Heinrich Lautensack, Das Ver-
storte Fest: Gesammelte Werke, ed. W.L. Kristi, Munich: Hanser Verlag, 1967.

16. See Otto F. Best, ‘Heinrich Lautensack und die Sakularisierung des Eros,’ Akzente , no.
4, 1970, pp. 370-84. ‘The goal of his love was to it (the catholic, middle-class, rural way
of life) at the same time a provocation and a reproach’ (p. 370).

17. On die macht der jugend see the synopsis in Lichtbildbuhne , no. 16, 1912, p. 36. On
entsagungen see the programme of the Continental, quoted in W.L. Kristi, ‘Ein Film*
pionier aus Passau,’ Bayerische Staatszeitung , no, 4, 1974, p, 30 (section ‘Unser
Bayern’). An original plot outline of das ist der krieg is to be found in Lichtbildbuhne,
no. 19, 1913, pp. 25, 30,32.

1 8. Quoted after Herbert Birett, Verzeichnis in Deutschland gelaufener Filme: Entscheidun-
gen der Filmzensur 1911-1920, Munich et al.: K.G. Saur, 1980, p. 48.

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Giuseppe Becce and richard wagner

1 , richard wagner. Ein Kinematographischer Beitrag zu seinem Lebensbild, scr: Wil-
liam Wauer; dir: William Wauer and Carl Froelich; cam: Carl Froelich; mus: Giuseppe
Becce; leading players: Giuseppe Becce (Richard Wagner), Olga Engl (Cosima), Man-
ny Ziener (Minna Planer), Miriam Horowitz (Mathilde Wesendonk), Ernst Reicher
(Ludwig II); prod: Messter-Film GmbH, Berlin; cens: Berlin, 8 May 1913, 2055m, re-
stricted access; World Premiere: 31 May 1913, Berlin, Union-Theater Friedrichstrasse
in the Bavaria House; for the Wagner year 1983 the film was projected with music by
Armin Brunner and has been shown in this version on television several times.

2. Leopold Schwarzschild’s review is reprinted in Ludwig Greve et al. (eds.), Hdtte ich das
Kino! Die Schriftsteller und der Stummfilm, Munich: Kosel, 1976, pp. 51-52.

3. Stephen Bush, quoted from Charles Merrel Berg, An Investigation of the Motives for
and Realization of Music to Accompany the American Silent Film, 1896-1927 , New
York 1976, p. 76.

4. It would be a separate task to construct a Wagner filmography of the early years. It is not
possible to even approximate the real number of early Wagner films at this moment. The
following facts should therefore be considered with reservations. Wagner sound films of
a few minutes’ length are produced primarily between 1907-1919 by German compa-
nies: There are nine pictures with the title lohengrin, among these two with Henny
Porten; seven tannhausers, two fliegende Hollander as well as one meistersing-
er von nuknberg and one Siegfried; Pathe Freres offered at least three Wagner sound
pictures, the American Vitascope at least one, no other producers present in Germany
are (as yet) known to have produced Wagner films (see Herbert Birett, Das Filmangehot
in Deutschland 1895-1911 , Munich: Filmbuchverlag Winterberg, 1991, pp. 200, 410,
439, 440, 601 , 632). Already in 1904 there existed a parsifal by Edwin Porter, in 1910
another parsifal by the Edison Company; in Italy we know of i nibelunghi by M.
Bernacci (1910), tristano f. isotta (1911), also parsifal (1912) and Siegfried (1912)
by Mario Caserini.

5. See entry ‘Carl Froelich,’ in Hans-Michael Bock (ed.). Cine graph: Lexikon zum deut-
schsprachigen Film , Munich: edition text + kritik, Lg. 7, D 1, 1986.

6. O. Th. Stein, ‘Ein neues Filmgenre (Die Richard-Wagner-Biographie im Kino),’ in Das
Lichtbi Id-Theater, vol. 5., no. 23, 5 June 1913.

7. Oskar Messter, Mein Weg mit dem Film , Berlin: Verlag Max Hesse, 1936, p. 63.

8. Becce 5 s score for richard wagner is kept at the Library of Congress, Washington; see
also Gillian Anderson, Music for Silent Films: A Guide , Washington: Library of Con-
gress, 1988, LCM176, R5, Music 3212, item 1 13.

9. Hans Erdmann and Giuseppe Becce (with Ludwig Brav), Allgemeines Handbuch der
Filmmusik , vol. 1, Berlin 1927, p. 6 (note in the margin),

10. Ibid., vol. 2, p. 192.

328 Notes

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1 1. Schwarzschild, op. cit p. 52,

12. Der Kinematograph, no. 349, 3 September 1913.

13. Stein, op. cit.

14. U nion-Theater-Zeitung , no. 22, 1913.

1 5. Ibid., no. 33, 1913.

16. ‘Die Eroffnung des 6, Union-Theaters in Berlin,’ Der 1 Cinematograph , no. 336, 4 June
1913.

17. Der Kinematograph, no. 349, 3 September 1913.

18. See Helmut Diederichs, ‘The Origins of the Autorenfilm, 5 in Paolo Cherchi Usai and
Lorenzo Codelli (eds.), Before Caligari: German Cinema, 1895-1920, Pordenone: Ed-
izioni Biblioteca dellTmmagine, 1990, p. 390.

19. 1 am grateful to Martin Loiperdinger for his assistance in preparing the German original
of this essay for print.

Early German Film:

The Stylistics in Comparative Context

1 . My thanks to the National Film Archive and National Film Theatre for their usual exten-
sive cooperation in making films available for analysis, and this time the Goethe Insti-
tute also deserves a full share of my appreciation for their help.

2. Emilie Altenloh, Zur Soziologie des Kino: Die Kinounternehmung und die sozialen
Schichten ihrer Besucher, Jena: Diederichs, 1914.

3. See the 2nd edition of Barry Salt, Film Style and Technology: History and Analysis ,
London: Starword, 1992.

4. See Herbert Birett, ‘Alte Filme. Filmalter und Filmstil: Statistische Analyse von
Stummfilmen,’ in Elfriede Ledig (ed.), Der Stummfilm: Konstruktion und Rekonstruk-
tion, Munich: diskurs film, 1988, pp. 69-88.

5. George Pratt, Spellbound in Darkness, New York: Graphic Society, 1973.

Self-Referentiality in Early German Cinema

1 . This essay is an edited and slightly shortened version of ‘Self-Referentiality in Early
German Cinema Cinema Journal, vol. 31, no. 3, Spring 1992, pp. 37-55.

2. Siegfried Kracauer, From Caligari to Hitler: A Psychological History of the German
Film, Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1947, p. 15.

3. On a different tradition of sclf-reflexivity that emphasizes its critical aspects, see Robert
Stain, Reflexivity in Film and Literature: From Don Quixote to Jean-Luc Godard , Ann
Arbor, Mich.: UMI Research Press, 1985. Most scholarship on self- reflexivity in the
cinema (Kawin, McCabe, Polan) has focused on the modernist tradition from Brecht to
Godard, while more recent work on cinema, women, consumer culture (Gaines, Allen)

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investigates its affinities with the self-celebratory mode of advertisement,

4. See Tom Gunning, ‘The Cinema of Attractions: Early Film, Its Spectator and the Avant-
Garde,’ in Thomas Elsaesser with Adam Barker (eds.). Early Cinema : Space, Frame,
Narrative , London: BFI Publishing, 1990, pp, 56-62, By the same author and in the
same volume, also see ‘Non-Continuity, Continuity, Discontinuity: A Theory of Genres
in Early Films,’ pp. 86-94 and “Primitive’ Cinema: A Frame Up? Or, The Trick’s on Us,’
pp. 95-103.

5. See the work of Andre Gaudreault, especially ‘Showing and Telling: Image and Word in
Early Cinema,’ Early Cinema: Space, Frame, Narrative , pp, 274-82,

6. Thomas Elsaesser, ‘National Subjects, International Style: Navigating Early German
Cinema,’ in Paolo Cherchi Usai and Lorenzo Codelli (eds.). Before Caligari: German
Cinema , 1895-1920, Pordenone: Edizioni Biblioteca dell’Immagine, 1990, p. 352,

7. The reference here is to Laura Mulvey’s famous essay ‘Visual Pleasure and Narrative
Cinema,’ Screen, vol. 16, no. 3, Autumn 1975, pp. 6-18.

8. Compare Heide Schlupmann, Unheimlichkeit des Blicks: Das Drama desfriihen deut-
schen Kinos, Basel and Frankfurt am Main: Stroemfeld/Roter Stem, 1990, esp, pp. 59-
61.

9. Beginning in the teens, the appearance of film crews in public places also emerges as a
recurring theme in plays written for lay theatre groups. For examples, see Hans Fischer,
Filmaufnahme in Krdhenwinkel, Bonn: Anton Heidelmann, c. 1915, and Gustav Pfen-
ning, Der Filmautor, Muhlhausen/Thiiringen: G. Danner, 1928.

10. This configuration recalls Stephen Heath’s call for a ‘history of the cinema-machine that
can include its developments, adaptations, transformations, realignments, the practices
it derives, holding together the instrumental and the symbolic, the technological and the
ideological, the current ambiguity of the term apparatus.’ In ‘The Cinematic Apparatus:
Technology as Historical and Cultural Form,’ Questions of Cinema, Bloomington: Indi-
ana University Press, 1981, p. 227.

1 1. For instance, when Edwin Porter stages the perils of spectatorship in uncle josh at
the moving picture show (1902), he emphasizes the proximity of cinema and delu-
sion, a psychological configuration that still dominates the American cinema in Kea-
ton’s Sherlock jr. (1924). By contrast, the scenarios of spectatorship that take place in
WHEN the cinema iakes revenge or where IS COLETTi? imply that the cinema’s
deceptions can also involve a process of learning. When Chaplin disrupts the smooth
functioning of the ‘dream factory’ in his new job (1915) and behind the screen
(1916), the apparatus is for a moment threatened - but only to prevail in the end. By
contrast, the filmmakers in the film primadonna and zapata’s gang appear as com
milted members of the film industry but abandon their projects for real-life experiences.

12. See Corinna Muller, ‘Emergence of the Feature Film in Germany between 1910 and
191 1/ in Before Caligari , pp. 94-1 14; Helmut H. Diederichs, The Origins of the Au-
torenfilm,’ Before Caligari, pp. 380-401 ; and Anton Kaes, ‘Literary Intellectuals and the

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Cinema: Charting a Controversy (1909-1929),’ trans. David J. Levin, New German Cri-
tique 40, Winter 1987, pp. 7-33.

Of Artists and Tourists:

‘Locating* Holland in Two Early German films

1. For this article I owe gratitude to the following individuals and institutions: Jorien Jas
(Zuiderzeemuseum Enkhuizen), Geoffrey Donaldson, Paul van Yperen, and the Neder-
lands Filmmtiseum. For the relation between artists and Volendam, I refer to the exhibi-
tion catalogue by Gusta Reichwein, Vreemde gasten. Kunstschilders in Volendam 1880-
1914 , s.l.: Vereniging Vrienden van het Zuiderzeemuseum, 1986. The quote by Havard
is from Henry Havard, La Hollande. pittoresque, voyage aux villes mortes au Zuyderzee ,
1874.

2. For Clausen see Reichwein, Vreemde gasten , op. cit., pp. 8-9.

3. For the names from the guestbooks of Spaander, I thank Geoffrey Donaldson.

4. The determining way of describing the inhabitants of the villages at the Zuiderzee can
also be found in travel guides from the turn of the century. H. Maho writes in his travel
guide D’ Amsterdam a Vile de Marken , Brussel: A. Bieleveld, 191 1, pp. 158-159: ‘De
ces pauvres masure de Marken, il ne sort ni vagabonds, ni femmes corompues; nul hab-
itant n’a jamais deserte la mer, et aucune jeune fille n’a jamais dedaine la main d’un
pecheur.'

5. Apart from those films mentioned, Pathe shot at the same time comment se fait le
from age de holl ande ( 1910) at Alkmaar, not far from the Zuiderzee, and les porce-
lain es DE DELFT (1909).

6. Geoffrey Donaldson, ‘Het lijden van den scheepsjongen/le calvaire du mousse,’ in the
series ‘Wie is wie in de Nederlandse film tot 1930 Skrien, no. 136, Summer 1984, pp.
36-37. In the Zuiderzeemuseum within the inheritance of Hanicotte, three setphotos of
le calvaire du mousse are available, on which next to the filmcrew and the actors also
Cassiers and Hanicotte are visible. See also Herbert Birett, Das Filmangebot in
Deutschland 1895-1911 , Munich; Filmbuchverlag Winterberg, 1991; Herbert Birett,
Verzeichnis in Deutschland gelaufener FUme 1911-1920, Munich et al.: K.G. Saur,
1980. For Machin and his activities in the Netherlands see also Eric de Kuyper, Alfred
Machin Cineaste! Film-maker, Brussels: Cinematheque Royale de Belgique, 1995. This
book contains furthermore a detailed filmography of Machin ’s work, compiled by Sab
ine Lenk.

7. Apart from Miilleneisen the film crew consisted, according to Spaander ’s guestbook, of
‘Frauiein Lissi Nebuschka’ from Dresden (the protagonist of the film), ‘Herr Fritz
Stove’ from Garmisch, ‘Herr Rottger’ from Berlin and the cameraman ‘Herr Filrkel’
also from Berlin.

8. Meant here are the intertitles from the film copy within the Desmet collection of the

331 Notes

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Nederlands Filmmuseum, the only original copy left of the film.

9. Joseph Delmont, Wilde Tiere im Film: Erlebnisse aus meinen Filmaufnahmen in aller
Welt , Stuttgart: Died, 1925; see also Friedrich P. Kahlenberg, ‘der geheimnisvolle
klub and auf einsamer insel: Two German feature films made by Eiko-Film in 1913/
in Paolo Cherchi Usai, Lorenzo Codelli (eds.). Before Cali gar i : German Cinema, 1895-
1920 , Pordenone: Edizioni Biblioteca dellTmmagine, 1990, pp. 326-336.

10. The present manager of the hotel told me that the actual building is the one from Del-
mont’s time and has been there since 1905. A previous building by the same owners had
been there until 1903, when it burned down.

1 1. See, for instance, the plot of a Henny Porten film such as des pfarrers tochterlfin
(1912).

12. See the review in Die Lichtbildbuhne , 7 November 1913.

13. For George Clausen, see Vreemde gas ten, pp. 8-9; Lichtbildbuhne, 7 November 1913;
the subtitle is mentioned in a review in Die Filmwoche , no. 32, 19 October 1913, pp. 10-

14.

14. That L’ Angelas should be on such a painted chest is most unlikely. However, every
house at the time possessed such chests, though painted in naive, often abstract style,
while Millet’s painting could be found in many interiors in those days but in the form of
a print, in particular in the Catholic town of Volendam.

15. ‘The echoes of landscape painting and genre painting are hard to miss. Besides the al-
lusions to Dutch paintings, one distinctly senses the proximity of the realist, but in its
use of light impressionist tradition of [Max] Liebermann, [Wilhelm] Leibl, who re-
belled against the stuffiness and clutter of ‘Griinderzeif aesthetics. It is as if the film
wanted to show, how the cinema, in this respect, can go one better than painting.’ Heide
Schlupmann, Unheimlichkeit des Blicks: Das Drama desfruhen deutschen Kinos , Ba-
sel/Frankfurt: Stroemfeld/Roter Stem, 1990, p. 171.

16. John Sillevis et al., Liebermann in Holland, Den Haag: SDU, 1980 (exhibition cata-
logue Haags Gemeentemuseum). According to this catalogue there is no work known of
Liebermann on which Volendam or Marken are depicted.

17. Hans Kraan, ‘Als Holland Mode war: Deutsche Kiinstler und Holland im 19. Jahrhun-
dert,’ Nachbarn (Bonn), no. 31, 1985, pp. 16-17.

18. Die Filmwoche , op cit., pp. 10-14.

19. See Karel Dibbets and Ed Kerkman, ‘Een zee van ruimte: Het beeld van de zee in de
Nederlandse speelfilm tot 1940,’ Volkskundig Bulletin. Tijdschrift voor Nederlandse cul-
tuurwetenschap 16/2, June 1990, pp. 157-175. The cliche of the Volendam costume as
symbolic for the Dutch people can be traced to, apart from Machin’s Dutch films, also
his Belgian production la fille de delft (1913), and one year earlier a Pathe produc-
tion, la legende des tulipes d’or (1912). Moreover, auf einsamer insel and des
meeres und der liebe wellen were not the first and the last German films to be shot
on location in Volendam or Marken. In 1921 the film der ewige kampf, starring Lotte

332 Notes

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Neumann, was made, released in Holland as antje van volendam. This Union pro-
duction, directed by Paul Ludwig Stein, was shot in Volendam, too. See Cinema &
Theater 35, 1921, p. 8.

Stylistic Expressivity in die LANDSTRASSE

1. This essay was helped by having access to the print of die landstrasse held at the
Nederlands Filmmuseum, Amsterdam. My thanks to Mark-Paul Meyer and the staff of
the Stichting Nederlands Filmmuseum for their kindness and hospitality during my visit.

2. Kristin Thompson, ‘The International Exploration of Cinematic Expressivity,’ in Karel
Dibbets and Bert Hogenkamp (eds,), Film and the First World War , Amsterdam: Am-
sterdam University Press, 1995, pp. 65-85.

3. Frank Kessler, ‘A Highway to Film Art?’ In Paolo Cherchi Usai and Lorenzo Codelli
(eds.). Before Caligari: German Cinema, 1895-1920, Pordenone: Edizioni Biblioteca
deirimmagine, 1990, pp. 438-451.

4. See John Fullerton, ‘Spatial and Temporal Articulation in Pre-classicai Swedish Film,’
in Thomas Elsaesser (ed.). Early Cinema: Space, Frame, Narrative , London: BFI Pub-
lishing, 1990, pp. 375-388.

5. Kessler also comments that die landstrasse has ‘quite a “modem” feel to it,’ arising
from the clarity of the spatial and temporal relations in the editing. See ‘A Highway to
Film Art?’, p. 446.

6. ibid,, p. 444.

7. 1 have seen die landstrasse under a number of different circumstances, but none
which would allow me to make a reasonably precise measurement of individual shot
lengths. Given the problems with silent-film projection speeds, my estimates here can
be only approximate.

8. Kessler, ‘A Highway to Film Art?’, pp. 446, 448.

Two ‘Stylists’ of the Teens:

Franz Hofer and Yevgenii Bauer

1 . The future Russian/German/French/American film director Fedor Otsep advocated this
idea in his unpublished book of 1913 (outline for the book survives at RGALI [Russia’s
State Archive for Literature and Art], 2743/1/72.) See also G. Er. ‘Dinamika Zhivopisi i
kinematograf,’ (‘The Dynamics of Painting and Cinema’), Sine-Fono , 1914, no. 20, pp.
33-34.

2. Sergei Gorodetskii, ‘Zhiznopis,’ Kinematograf, 1915, no. 2, pp. 3-4.

3. More on this doctrine see my article ‘Some Preparatory Remarks On Russian Cinema,’
in Yuri Tsivian (research), Paolo Cherchi Usai e. a. (eds.), Silent Witnesses : Russian
Films,! 908-1919, Pordenone/London: British Film Institute & Edizioni deirimmagine,
1989, pp. 26-34.

333 Notes

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4. For the discussion and frame enlargements illustrating his point see Paolo Cherchi Usai,
‘On the Concept of “Influence” in Early Cinema,’ in Roland Cosandey and Francois
Albera (eds.). Cinema sans Frontieres i Images Across Borders, 1896-1918; Interna-
tionality in World Cinema : Representations, Markets, Influences and Reception, Que-
bec/Lausanne: Nuit Blanche Editeur- Editions Payot, 1995, pp. 275-286.

5. Jeffery W. Howe, The Symbolist Art of Fernand Khnopff, Ann Arbor; UMI Reserarch
Press, 1982, pp. 63-64.

6. Quoted from the Russian translation of Przybyszewsky’s Homo Sapiens, Moscow,
1904, p. 45.

1. Quoted from Henryk Izydor Rogacki, Zyvot Przybyszewskiego , Warszawa; Panstwowo
Institut Wydawniczy, n.d., p. 50.

8. See Kristin Thompson, ‘The International Exploration of Cinema ic Expressivity,’ in
Karel Dibbets, Bert Hogenkamp (eds,). Film and the First World War, Amsterdam: Am-
sterdam University Press, 1 995, pp. 70-75; John Fullerton, ‘Contextualising the Innova-
tion of Deep Staging in Swedish Films,’ ibid,, pp. 86-96, and my own ‘Portraits, Mir-
rors, Death: On Some Decadent Cliches in Early Russian Films,’ Iris, no. 14-15, Au-
tumn 1992, pp,67-83,

9. Ted Shawn, Every Little Movement: A Book about Franqois Delsarte, New York: Dance
Horizons 1963, pp. 28-59.

The Voyeur at Wilhelm’s Court: Franz Hofer

1. Heide Schlupmann, ‘The Sinister Gaze: Three Films by Franz Hofer from 1913,’ in
Paolo Cherchi Usai and Lorenzo Codelli (eds.): Before Caligari: German Cinema,
1895-1920, Pordenone: Ed. Biblioteca delTimmagine, 1990, pp. 452.

2. Two titles produced by this company in 1921 are reported in Ludwig Greve, Margot
Pehle, Heidi Westhoff (eds.), Hatte ich das Kino ! Die Schriftsteller und der Stummfilm,
Munich: Kosel Verlag, 1976.

3. See the ‘Luxus-Ausgabe’ of the Lichtbild-Buhne, no. 23, 1913. The supplement was
edited by Arthur Mellini, and dedicated to ‘Filmregie und Kinokunst. Unsere Regis-
seure in Wort und Bild’; the contribution by Hofer is indicated with the title ‘Kunst und
Literatur im Kino.’ In 1923, the Lichtbild-Buhne published another contribution by
Franz Hofer (‘Kunst und Begeisterung beim Theater’), this time on the theatre, in a
supplement dedicated to ‘Der Kino Regisseur,’ The 1913 supplement dedicated to the
Film director gave rise to a long debate that also involved other Film magazines, like Die
Filmwoche (no. 39, 1913).

4. On the contribution of the Autorenfilm to the evolution of a film language in German
cinema, see Leonardo Quaresima, “‘Dichter, heraus!” The Autorenfilm and the German
Cinema of the 1910s,’ Griffithiana , no. 38/39, 1990, pp. 101-126.

5. Heide Schlupmann, Unheimlichkeit des BUcks: Das Drama des friihen deutschen Ki-

334 Notes

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nos, Basel and Frankfurt: Stroemfeld/Roter Stem, 1990, p. 465.

Apart from, maybe, fraulein piccolo (Luna Film, 1914), a comedy that seems still
tied to typically theatrical mise-en- scene, with transvestism, stage entrances and exits,
and the use of the gaze into the camera according to the technique of * direct address.’
The film tells the story of a young girl who finds herself forced to work in a hotel as
room maid and manservant. It boasts a fleeting appearance of Ernst Lubitsch. See also
Leonardo Quaresima, ‘Kunst im Kino,’ in Antonio Costa (ed.), La meccanica del visi-
bile: It cinema delle origini in Europa , Firenze: La Casa Usher, 1983,

Also ihr unte roffizier (dir, Alfred Halm, National-Film, 1915) offers a private and
‘childish’ view of the war: that of a young girl who writes to three soldiers and sends
them food and warm socks. But the mood is decisively that of comedy and of military
propaganda, directed towards the morale of soldiers at the front.

335

Notes

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THE GERMAN CINEMA 1895-1917
A Classified Bibliography

GENERAL REFERENCE

(ENCYCLOPEDIAS, GENERAL HISTORIES, FILMOGRAPHIES...)

Birett, Herbert (ed.), Verzeichnis der in Deutschland gelaufenen Filme: Entscheidungen der
Filmzensur. Berlin/Hamburg/Munich/Stuttgart: K.G. Saur, I960.

— Das Filmangebot in Deutschland J 895-191 J . Munich: Winterberg, 1991 .

Bock, Hans Michael (ed.), CineGraph: Lexikoti zutn deutschsprachigen Film. Munich: edi-
tion text & kritik, 1984ff.

Boussinot, Roger et al„ L' encyclopedic du cinema , 3 vols. Paris, 1984,

Bredow, Wilfried von / Rolf Zurek (eds.). Film und Gesellschaft in Deutschland: Dokumen-
te und Materialien, Hamburg: Hoffman & Campe, 1975.

Bucher, Felix, Screen Series: Germany. London/New York: A, Swemmer Ltd,/ AS. Barnes
& Co., 1970.

Cherchi Usai, Paolo, ‘German Fiction Films, 1895-1920: A Checklist of Surviving Material
in F1AF Archives,’ in Before Caligari, pp. 480-5 1 1 .

Dahlke, Gunther / Gunther Karl (eds.), Deutsche Spielfilme von den Anfdngen bis 1933 : Ein
Filmfuhrer. Berlin/GDR: Henschel, 1986.

Deutsches Institut fur Filmkunde / Stiftung der deutschen Kinemathek (ed.), Verleihkatalog
l. Frankfurt/Wiesbaden/Berlin, 1986.

Faulstich, Werner / Helmut Korte (eds.), Fischer Filrngeschichte. Vol. I : Von den Anfdngen
bis zutn etablierten Medium 1895-1924 , Frankfurt/M.: Fischer TaschenbuchVerlag,
1994,

Fraenkel, Heinrich, Unsterhlicher Film: Die grofie Chronik - Von der Laterna Magica zum
Tonfilm. Munich: Kindler, 1956.

Frieden, Sandra et ah. Gender and German Cinema : Feminist Interventions. Vol. I, Provi-
dence / Oxford: Berg, 1993.

Gregor, Ulrich / Enno Patatas, Geschichte des Films. Giitersloh: Mohn, 1960.

Hake, Sabine and Katie Trumpener, German National Cinema. London: Routledge, 1995.

Holba, Herbert / Gunter Knorr / Peter Spiegel, Reclams deutsches Filmlexikon: Filmkunst-
leraus Deutschland, Osterreich und der Schweiz. Stuttgart: Reclam, 1984,

Jacobsen, Wolfgang / Anton Kaes / Hans Helmut Prinzler (eds.), Geschichte des deutschen
Films. Stuttgart/Weimar: Metzler, 1993.

Jason, Alexander, Der Film in Zijfern und Zahlen : Die Statistik der Lichtspielhduser in
Deutschland 1895-1925, Berlin: Hackebeil, 1925.

Jung, Uli (ed.), Der deutsche Film: Aspekte seiner Geschichte von den Anfdngen bis zur

337 Bibliography

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Gegenwart. Trier: Wissenschaftlicher Verlag, 1993.

Lamprecht, Gerhard, Deutsche Stummfilme J 903-1 93 1 . 9+1 vols. Berlin: Deutsche Kine-
mathek, 1966-70.

Loiperdinger, Martin, ‘Erhaltene Spielfilme aus der Messter-Produktion, 1909-1918/ in
KINtop 3, 1994, pp. 209-212.

Magliozzi, Ronald S., Treasures from the Film Archives: A Catalogue of Short Silent Fiction
Films Held by FI AF Archives, Metuchen,N.J./London: Scarecrow, 1988.

Mitry, Jean, Histoire du Cinema: Art et Industrie. Vol, 1 : / 895-1914 , Paris: Editions Univer-
sitaires, 1968.

Murray, Bruce A. / Christopher Wickham (eds.). Framing the Past: The Historiography of
German Cinema and Television. Carbondale/Edwardsville: Southern Illinois University
Press, 1992.

Ott, Frederick W., The Great German Films: From Before World War 1 to the Present. Se-
caucus: Citadel, 1986.

Prinzler, Hans Helmut, Chronik des deutschen Films. Stuttgart/Weimar; Metzler, 1995.

Prokop, Dieter, Soziologie des Films , Opladen: Luchterhand, 1970 (2nd ed. Frankfurt: Fi-
scher, 1982)

Riess, Curt, Das gab’s nur einmal: Die grofie Zeit des deutschen Films. 3 vols. Frankfurt/M.
et ah: Ullstein, 1985.

Sadoul, Georges, Histoire General du Cinema. Vols. 2 and 3, Paris: Denoel, 1973.

Schneider, Roland, Histoire du cinema allemand. Paris: Cerf, 1990.

Silbennan, Marc, German Cinema: Texts in Context. Detroit: Wayne State University Press,
1995.

Tichy, Wolfram (ed.), Buchers Enzyclopddie des Films. Luzem/Frankfurt: Bucher, 1997.

Toeplitz, Jerzy, Geschichte des Films. Vol. 1, Berlin: Henschel, 1972.

Vincendeau, Ginette (ed.). Encyclopedia of European Cinema. London: BFI Publishing,
1995.

Werner, Paul, Die Skandalchronik des deutschen Films I: Von 1900 bis 1945. Frankfurt:
Fischer Taschenbuch Verlag, 1990.

Zglinicki, Friedrich von, Der Weg des Films: Die Geschichte der Kinematographie und
Hirer Vorldufer , Hildesheim: Olms, 1956.

CONTEMPORARY SOURCES

Anthologies

Greve, Ludwig / Margot Pehle / Heidi Westhoff (eds.), T latte ich das Kino!' Die Schriftstel-
ler und der Stummfilm. Munich: Kosel Verlag, 1976.

Guttinger, Fritz (ed.), Kein Tag ohne Kino: Schriftsteller iiber den Stummfilm. Frankfurt:
Deutsches Filmmuseum, 1984.

Kaes, Anton (ed.), Kino-Dcbatic: Texte zum Verhdltnis von Literatur und Film 1909-1929.

338 Bibliography

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Tubingen/Munich: Niemeyer/Deutscher Taschenbuch Verlag, 1978.

Schweinitz, Jorg (ed.), Prolog vor dem Film: Nachdenken iiher ein neues Medium 1909 -
1914. Leipzig: Reclam, 1992.

Bibliographies

Birett, Herbert, ‘Standortverzeichnis friiher deutscher Filmzeitschriften,’ KIN top 1 , 1992,
pp. 136-144.

Traub, Hans / Harms Wilhelm Lavies (eds.). Das deutsche Filmschrifttum: Eine Bibliogra-
phic der Bucher and Zeitschriften uber das Filmwesen. Leipzig: Hiersemann, 1940.

Periodicals

- Bild und Film , M.Gladbach (1912-1915).

- Erstc Internationale Filmzeitung, Berlin (1907-1920),

- Der Film. Zeitschrift fur die Gesamtinteressen der Kinematographie (1916-1943).

- Filmkunst (Eclair). Illustrierte Wochenschrift fur modeme Kinematographie, Berlin

(1912-1914).

- Der Kinemato graph. Organ fur die gesamte Projektionskunst, Berlin (1907-1935).

- Kunst im Kino. Zeitschrift fur Lichtspielkunst, Berlin (1912-1913).

- Lichtbildbiihne , Berlin (1908-1939).

- Pathe-Woche , Berlin (1910-1914).

Books

Adler, Wilhelm (1917), Wie schreibe ich einen Film? Ein Lehr-und Hilfsbuch fur Film-
schriftsteller. Weimar: Weimarer SchriftstellerBund, 1917 (= Hilfsbiieher fur die Praxis
des Schriftstellers, vol. 1), 1917.

Altenloh, Emilie, Zur Soziologie des Kino: Die Kino-U nternehmung und die sozialen
Schichten ihrer Besucher. Jena: Diederichs, 1914 (= Schriften zur Soziologie der

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Dannmeyer, C.H., Bericht der Komissionfiir 'Lebende Photographien (1907). Reprint, ed.
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Dupont, E.A., Wie ein Film geschrieben wird und wie man ihn verwertet. Berlin: G. Kuhn,
1919. (2nd ed, 1926),

Ferdinand, Franz / Ferdinand Bielitz, Wie werde ich Kinodarsteller? Praktische Anleitung
zum Selbststudhim in Original-Aufnahmen aus fertigen Filmen. Vienna: Verlag H. Fan-
ner, 1916.

Forsten, Hans, Wie wird man Ktnoschauspielerin und Kinoschauspieler? Leipzig: Deut-
scher Theaterverlag, 1918.

Frensdorff, Walter, Kinostern. Stuttgart: Fiirstverlag, 1917.

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Hafker, Hermann, Kino und Kunst. Munich: Volks vereinsverlag, 1913 (Lichtbiihnen-Bi-
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Hellwig, Albert, Schundfilms: I hr Wesen, ihre Gefahren und ihre Bekampfung. Halle: Buch
handlung des Waisenhauses, 1911.

Hoppe, Hans, Die Zukunft des Kinos. Stettin: Hessenland, 1912.

Klebinder, Paul, Der deutsche Kaiser im Film, Berlin: Verlag P. Klebinder, 1912).

— Kronprinzens im Film , Berlin: Verlag P. Klebinder, 1913.

Lange, Konrad, Die Kunst des Kinematographen. Korrespondenz des Diirer-Bundes, 1912.

— Nat ionale Ki noreform. Monchengladbach: Volksvereinsverlag, 1918,

— Das Kino in Gegenwart und Zukunft. Stuttgart: Verlag von Ferdinand Enke, 1920.

Lemke, Hermann, Die Kinematographie der Gegenwart, Vergangenheit und Zukunft. Leip-
zig: E. Demme, 1910.

Liesegang, F, Paul, Handbuch der praktischen Kinematographie. Leipzig: Eger, 1908.

Mack, Max (ed t ). Die zappelnde Le inwand, Berlin: Verlag von Dr Eysler & Co., 1916.

Messter, Oskar, Special-Catalog Nr. 32 der Fa. Ed. Messter (1898), reprint, ed. Martin Loi-
perdinger, Basel und Frankfurt: Stroemfeld/Roter Stem, 1994.

— Mein Weg mit dem Film, Berlin: Verlag Max Hesse, 1936.

Pinthus, Kurt (ed,). Das Kinobuch [1913], Zurich: Arche, 1963.

Pordes, Viktor, Das Lichtspielwe sen: Dramaturgic , Regie. Vienna: R. Leehner, 1919.

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Schliepmann, Hans, Lichtspieltheater : Fine Sammlung ausgefiihrter Kino-Hauser in Grofi-
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Sellmann. Adolf, Der Kinematograph als Volkserzieher? Langensalza: Hermann Beyer &
Sohne, 1912.

Wamcke, Hermann, Anleitung zur Ausarheitung von Lichtspielen fur Kinotheater. Mann-
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Warstatt, W., Allgemeine Aesthetik der photographischen Kunst auf psychologiseher
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Birett, Herbert, ‘The Origins of Official Film Censorship in Germany,’ in Before Caligari ,
pp, 50-57.

Convents, Guido, 'Film and German Colonial Propaganda for the Black African Territories
to 1918,’ in Before Caligari, pp. 58-77.

Curry, Ramona, ‘How Early German Film Stars Helped to Sell the War(es),’ in Film and the
First World War, ed. Karel Dibbets and Bert Hogenkamp, Amsterdam: Amsterdam Uni-
versity Press, 1995, pp. 139-148.

Curtis, Scott, The Taste of a Nation: Training the Senses and Sensebility of Cinema Audi-
ences in Imperial Germany,' Film History 6, 1994, pp. 445-469.

Dagrada, Elena, ‘A Fly, Two Films and Three Queries: Eine Fliegenjagd oder Die Rache
der Frau Schultze by Max and Eugen Skladanowsky,’ in Before Caligari , pp. 424-437.

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— ‘The Origins of the “Autorenfilm’7 in Before Caligari , pp. 380-401.

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— Filmgeschichte, Firmengeschichte, Familiengeschichte: Der Ubergang vom Wilhelmi-
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Narrative: Space, Frame, Narrative, ed. Thomas Elsaesser with Adam Barker, London:
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Horak, Jan-Christopher, ‘Laughing until it Hurts: German Film Comedy and Karl Valentin,’
in Before Caligari, pp. 202-229.

— ‘Oskar Messter: Forgotten Pioneer of German Cinema,’ Historical Journal of Film, Ra-
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pp. 389-402.

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— ‘Friihgeschichte des deutschen Films: Licht am Ende des Tunnels,’ in Geschichte des
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— ‘The Debate about Cinema: Charting a Controversy (1909-1929),’ New German Cri-
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— ‘Le theatre dans les cinemas allemands des annees 10,’ Conferences du College
d'Histoire de V Art Cinematographique , no. 3, 1992-93.

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Martinelli, Vittorio, ‘Kino-Lieblinge,’ Griffithiana , no. 38/39, October 1990, pp. 9-72.

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Paech, Anne, ‘ Wie das Kino in die Provinz kam 1 897-1918/ in Paech, Kino zwischen Stadt
und Land. Geschichte des Kinos in der Provinz : Osnabriick, Marburg: Jonas, 1985, pp.
11-44.

Pehla, Karen, ‘Joe May und seine Detektive: Der Serienfilm als Kinoerlebnis/ in Joe May,
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Rother, Rainer, ‘ Bei unseren Helden an der Somme (1917): The Creation of a “Social
Event”/ Historical Journal of Film, Radio and Television, vol. 15, no. 4, October 1995,
pp. 525-542.

Quaresima, Leonardo, '“Dichter heraus!”: The Autorenfilm and German Cinema of the
1910’s,’ Griffithiana , vol. 13, no. 38/39, October 1990, pp. 101 126.

— ‘L ’Autorenfilm allemand: Un cinema produit par des societes etrangeres (1913-
1915)/ in Cinema sans frontieresl I mages Across Borders, 1896-1918, pp. 237-248.

Salt, Barry, ‘From German Stage to German Screen/ in Before Caligari, 402-423.

Schliipmann, Heide, ‘Kinosucht/ Frauen und Film, no. 33, October 1982, pp. 45-52.

— ‘The first German Art Film: Rye’s Der Student von Prag / in German Film and Litera-
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344 Bibliography

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— 'The Sinister Gaze: Three Films by Franz Hofer from 1913,’ in Before Caligari, pp. 452-
479.

— ‘Wahrheit und Liige im Zeitalter der technischen Reproduzierbarkeit: Detektiv und He-
roine bei Joe May,’ in Joe May, pp. 45-60.

— ‘Early German Cinema - Melodrama: Social Drama,’ in Popular European Cinema ,
eds. Richard Dyer and Ginette Vincendeau, London/New York: Routledge, 1992, pp.
206-219.

— ‘Cinema as Anti-Theater: Actresses and Female Audiences in Wilhelminian Germany,’
Iris, no. 11, Summer 1990, pp. 77-93.

-- ‘Cinematographic Enlightenment versus ‘The Public Sphere’: A Year in Wilhelminian
Cinema, 'Griffithiana, no. 50, March 1994, pp. 75-85.

— “‘Quo vadis cinema?” Le role du film italien dans TAllemagne du Guillaume II,’ in
Cinema sans frontieresl Images Across Borders, 1896-1918 , pp. 329-339.

Simeon, Ennio, ‘Music in German Cinema before 1918,’ in Before Caligari , pp. 78-93.

Smith, Bradford, ‘On the Opposite Shore: Max Reinhardt and Film, 1910-1914,’ in Before
Caligari, pp. 114-137,

Stark, Gary D,, ‘Cinema, Society and the State: Policing the Film Industry in Imperial Ger-
many,’ in Essays on Culture and Society in Modem Germany , eds. Stark and Bede Karl
Lackner, Arlington/Texas: Texas A&M University Press, 1982, pp. 122- 166.

Thompson, Kristin, ‘“Im Anfang war.,.”: Some Links between German Fantasy Films of the
Teens and the Twenties,’ in Before Caligari , pp. 138-161.

Uricchio, William, ‘The “Kulturfiim”: A Brief History of an Early Discursive Practice,’ in
Before Caligari, pp. 356-379.

345 Bibliography

Copyrighted material

Publication Acknowledgements

Martin Loiperdinger, ‘Das friihe Kino der Kaiserzeit: ProbleinaufriB und Forschungsper
spektiven, 1 published in Uli Jung (ed,), Der deutsche Film: Aspekte seiner Geschichte von
den Anfdngen bis zur Gegenwart , Trier: Wissenschaftlicher Verlag, 1993 (= Filmgeschichte
international 1), pp. 21-46. Reprinted in translation in a shortened version by permission of
the author and the publisher.

Martin Koerber, ‘Oskar Messier - Stationen einer Karriere,’ published in Martin Loiper-
dinger (ed.), Oskar Messier - FUmpionier der Kaiserzeit , Basel and Frankfurt: Stoemfeld/
Roter Stem, 1994 (= KINtop Schriften 2), pp. 27-91 . Reprinted in translation in a shortened
version by permission of the author and the publisher.

Sabine Lenk and Frank Kessler, ‘The French Connection: Franco-German Film Relations
before World War I,’ will appear in German in Sibylle Sturm (ed.). Alio Berlin, id Paris:
Deutsch-franzdsische Filmbeziehungen der zwanziger und dreifiiger Jahre, Munich: edition
text & kritik, 1996. Printed in English by permission of the authors and the publisher.
Evelyn Hampicke, ‘Vom Aufbau eines vertikalen Konzems: Zu David Olivers Geschaften
in der deutschen Filmindustrie,’ in Manfred Behn (ed.), Schwarzer Traum und Wei fie
Sklavin: Deutsch-ddnische Filmbeziehungen 1910-1930 , Munich: edition text & kritik,
1994, pp. 22-29. Reprinted in translation by permission of the author and the publisher.
Peter Lahn, ‘Die PAGU: Ein Filmuntemehmen aus Frankfurt,’ published in Lebende Bilder
einer Stadt: Kino und Film in Frankfurt am Main , Frankfurt: Deutsches Filmmuseum, 1995,
pp. 52-59. Reprinted in translation by permission of the author and the publisher.
Jan-Christopher Horak, ‘Munich’s First Feature Film: die wahrheit.’ Orginal contribu-
tion,

Deniz Gokturk, ‘Neckar- Western statt Donau Walzer: Der Geschmack von Freiheit und
Abenteuer im friihen Kino,’ KINtop 2, Basel and Frankfurt: Stroemfeld/Roter Stem, 1993,
pp. 1 17-142. Reprinted in translation in a shortened version by permission of the author.
Thomas Brandlmeier, ‘Early German Film Comedy, 1895-1917.’ Original contribution.
Karsten Witte, ‘The Spectator as Accomplice in Ernst Lubitsch’s schuhfalast pinkus’
was first given as a talk at the Early Cinema: Space, Frame, Narrative Conference. , Univer-
sity of East Anglia, Norwich, 1 983.

Heide Schliipmann, ‘Ohne Worte: Asta Nielsen als Erzahlerin im Kinodrama,’ published in
Manfred Behn (ed.), Schwarzer Traum und Weifie Sklavin: Deutsch-ddnische Filmbezie-
hungen 1910-1930 , Munich: edition text & kritik, 1994, pp. 125-135. Reprinted in transla-
tion in an abridged version by permission of the author and publisher,

Michael Wedel, ‘Melodrama and Narrative Space: Franz Hofer’s heidenroslein.’ Original
contribution.

Tilo Knops, ‘Cinema from the Writing Desk: Detective Films in Imperial Germany.’ Origi-
nal contribution.

Sebastian Hesse, ‘Ernst Reicher alias Stuart Webbs: Konig der deutschen Film-Detektive,’

346 Publication Acknowledgements

Copyrighted material

published in KIN top 2, Basel and Frankfurt: Stroemfeld/Roter Stem, 1993, pp. 143-162.
Reprinted in translation in an abridged version by permission of the author and the publish-
er.

Casper Tybjerg, ‘The Faces of Stellari Rye.’ Original contribution.

Leonardo Quaresima, ‘homunculus: A Project for a Modem Cinema.’ Original contribu-
tion.

Jeanpaul Goergen, ‘Julius Pinschewer: Kiinstler und Kaufmann, Pionier des Werbefilms,’ in
epd-Film , 3, 1992, pp. 16 22. Reprinted in translation in a version revised by the author and
by permission of the publisher.

Wolfgang Muhl-Benninghaus, ‘Newsreel Images of the Military and War, 1914-1918.’
Original contribution.

Rainer Rother, ‘Learning From the Enemy: German Film Propaganda in World War I,’ Orig-
inal contribution.

Kimberly O’Quinn, ‘The Reason and Magic of Steel; Industrial and Urban Discourses in
die poldihutte.’ Original contribution.

Michael Wedel, ‘Max Mack: The Invisible Author.’ Original contribution.

Jurgen Kastcn, ‘From Peripetia to Plot Point: Heinrich Lautensack and zweimal gelebt,’
Original contribution.

Ennio Simeon, ‘Giuseppe Becces Musik fur richard wagner: Paradoxien der ersten deut-
schen Filmpartitur,’ published in KINtop 3 , Basel and Frankfurt: Stroemfeld/Roter Stem,
1994, pp. 65-71. Reprinted in translation by permission of the author and the publisher.
Barry Salt, ‘Early German Film: The Stylistics in Comparative Perspective.’ Original con-
tribution,

Sabine Hake, ‘Self-Referentiality in Early German Cinema,’ published in Cinema Journal ,
vo. 31, no. 3, Spring 1992, pp. 37-55. Reprinted in an abrigded version by permission of the
author and publisher.

Ivo Blom, ‘Of Artists and Tourists: “Locating” Holland in Two German Films.’ Original
contribution.

Kristin Thompson, ‘Stylistic Expressivity in die landstrasse.’ Original contribution.

Yuri Tsivian, ‘Two “Stylists” of the Teens: Franz Hofer and Yevgeni Bauer.’ Original contri-
bution.

Elena Dagrada, ‘Franz Hofer: un magico guardone alia corte di Gugliemo II,’ published in:
Immagine (nuove serie), no. 17, 1991, pp. 23-30. Reprinted in translation by permission of
the author and the publisher.

Photo Credits

Bundesarchiv/Filmarchiv, Berlin (7), Deutches Institut fiir Filmkunde (2), Thomas Elaesser
(4), Freunde der deutschen Kinemathek, Berlin (2), Jeanpaul Goergen (2), Muncher Film-
museum (5), Nederlands Filmmuseum, Amsterdam (18), Barry Salt (3),Stiftung deutsche
Kinemathek (1), Kristin Thompson (10), Yuri Tsivian (16), Michael Wedel (12), Zuiderzee
Museum, Enkhuizen (1).

347 Publication acknowledgements

Copyrighted material

The Contributors

Ivo Blom is completing a Ph D. in the Department of Film and Television Studies at the
University of Amsterdam. Formerly an archivist and restorer at the Netherlands Filmmuse-
um he is the co-editor of De vroege Italiaanse film: hartstocht en heldendom (1988) and has
published on early cinema in IRIS, KINtop, Jaarboek Media Geschiedenis , Cinematheque
and 1895.

Thomas Brandlmeier is a Munich-based freelance author who has lectured on film at var-
ious Universities in Germany. He is the author of Filmkomiker: Die Errettung des Grotesken
(1983) and several other books. His articles on comedy, melodrama, film noir and German
cinema have appeared in numerous journals and anthologies.

Elena Dagrada teaches film at the University of Bordeaux. She has written her Ph.D. on
The Representation of the Look in Early European Cinema, 1895-1908 (2 vols., 1987-88)
and has edited DOMITOR’s International Bibliography on Early Cinema (2nd ed., 1995).

Jeanpaul Goergen is a Berlin-based film historian and freelance author. His numerous
publications on German cinema and the visual arts of the twenties include Walter Ruttmann:
Eine Dokumentation (1989) and, as editor, George Grosi: Die Filmhalfte der Kunst (1994)
as well as Urlaute dadaistischer Poesie (1994),

Deniz Goktiirk teaches film and German Cultural Studies at the University of Southamp-
ton, England. She received her Ph.D. from the Free University Berlin with a thesis on Kiin-
stler. Cowboys, Ingenieure: Kultur- und mediengeschichtliche Studien zu deutsehen Ameri-
ka-Texten 1912-1920 (1995).

Sabine Hake is Professor of Germanic Languages and Literatures at the University of Pitts-
burgh. She has published Passions and Deceptions: The Early Films of Ernst Lubitsch
(1992) and The Cinema's Third Machine: Writing on Film in Germany, 1907-1933 (1993).

Evelyn Hampicke works at the Bundesarchiv/Filmarchiv in Berlin and is member of Cine-
Graph-Babelsberg. She is currently working on a project Jewish Life in German Film before
1933. Her articles on early German cinema have appeared in CineGraph, KINtop and dis-
kursfilm.

349 Contributors

Copyrighted material

Sebastian Hesse is a sound radio editor at the Suddeutscher Rundl'unk in Mannheim and a
freelance author. He is currently completing a Ph.D. on the early German criminal and
detective film and has published in CineGraph and KINtop.

Jan-Christopher Horak is the Director of the Munich Filmmuseum whose book publica-
tions include Anti-Nazi-Filme der deutschsprachigen Emigration in Hollywwod (1985),
Fluchtpunkt Hollywood (2nd. ed., 1986), The Dream Merchants; Making and Selling Films
in Hollywood’ s Golden Age (1989), and Lovers of Cinema: The First American Film Avant-
Garde (1995).

Jurgen Kasten teaches film at the Free University Berlin and at the Humboldt Universitat
Berlin. He is Chair of the Association of German Scriptwriters and has authored Der expres-
sionistische Film (1989), Film Schreiben: Fine Geschichte des Drehbuches (1990), as well
as Carl Mayer: Filmpoet (1994).

Frank Kessler is Assistant Professor at the Katholieke Universiteit Nijmegen and is one of
the editors and frequent contributors of KINtop: Jahrbuch zur Erforschung desfriihen Films
(since 1992). He has published widely on early cinema in journals and anthologies, such as
Iris , Cinematheque and montage a/v.

Tilo Knops is honorary Professor at the University of Hamburg and a freelance author for
NDR television. He has published Die Aufmerksamkeit des Blicks (1986) and Studienfiihrer
fur Medienherufe (1995) and is currently preparing two books: Der Konstitutionsprozess
der Filmkultur in Deutschland (as author) and Hollywoods popularkultureller Appeal :
Filmhistorische Revisionen (as editor).

Martin Koerber is an archivist and freelance writer who is currently in charge of a restora-
tion project concerned with the films of Oskar Messter. Since 1996 he is also responsible for
the Berlin Film Festival’s annual retrospectives.

Peter Lahti is a Frankfurt-based film historian and freelance author who is currently com-
pleting a Ph.D. about architectural design in German silent film.

Sabine Lenk works at the Belgian Filmmuseum in Brussels, after completing a Ph.D. for
the University of Erlangen on the relations of early film and theatre in France. She is the
author of Theatre centre Cinema (1989) and one of the editors of KINtop: Jahrbuch zur
Erforschung des friihen Films.

350 Contributors

Copyrighted material

Martin Loiperdinger is Deputy Director of the Deutsches Film Institut in Frankfurt and is
one of the editors of KINtop: Jahrbuch zur Erforschung desfriihen Films . His publications
as author include Rituale der Mobilmachung (1987) and Film und Schokolade (1996), and,
as editor, Martyrerlegenden im NS-Film ( 1991 ). He has also made a number of documentary
films on film historical subjects, including films on Lumiere and Messter.

Wolfgang Miihl-Benninghaus is Professor for Film- and Theatre Studies at the Humboldt
Universitat Berlin, He has published numerous articles on legal and institutional aspects of
Germany’s media history in anthologies and journals, including CineGraph and KINtop.

Kimberly O’Quinn is currently completing a master’s degree in Film- and Television
Studies at the University of Amsterdam. She has been working the last five years as a loca-
tion manager for feature films and television in the United States.

Leonardo Quaresima is Professor for Film at the University of Bologna. He is the author
of Leni Riefenstahl { 1 985) and Cinema e teatro in Germania ( 1 990) and the editor of Walter
Ruttmann: Cinema, Pittura, Ars Acustica (1994).

Rainer Rother is Head of the Film Department at the Deutsches Historisches Museum, Ber-
lin. He is the auhor of Die Gegenwart der Geschichte: Ein Versuch liber Film und Literatur
(1990) and has edited Bilder schreiben Geschichte: Der Historiker im Kino (1991), Die Ufa
191 7-1945 ( 1 992) and Die letzten Tage derMenschheit: Bilder des Ersten Weltkrieges ( 1 994).

Barry Salt is a trained physicist and dancer. An internationally known film historian, he is
the author of Film Style <& Technology: History & Analysis (2nd ed., 1992).

Heide Schliipmann is Professor for Film at the Johann Wolfgang Goethe Universitat
Frankfurt whose books include Friedrich Nietzsches asthetische Opposition (1977) and
Unheimlichkeit des Blicks: Das Drama des friihen deutschen Kinos (1990). She is also one
of the editors of the feminist film journal Frauen und Film.

Ennio Simeon teaches history and aesthetics of music at the Conservatory ‘Claudio Mon-
teverdi’ in Bolzano and film at the University of Trento (Northern Italy). He also works as a
freelance author, publishing widely on music and early cinema.

Kristin Thompson is an honorary fellow in the Department of Communication Arts at the
University of Wisconsin-Madison. With David Bordwell she has published Film Art: An
Introduction (1979ff) and Film History: An Introduction (1994), and with Bordwell and
Janet Staiger, The Classical Hollywood Cinema: Film Style and Mode of Production to
I960 (1985). Her other books include Eisenstein’s IVAN THE TERRIBLE (1981) and Breaking

351 Contributors

Copyrighted material

the Glass Armor: Neoformalist Film Analysis (1988). She is currently at work on a history
of European avant-garde film styles of the twenties.

Yuri Tsivian is a film historian, semiotician, and researcher in Riga. A Visiting Professor at
the University of Southern California, his books include Silent Witnesses: Russian Films
1908-1917 (1989) and Early Cinema in Russia and its Cultural Reception (1994).

Casper Tybjerg is completing a Ph.D. on the history of the Danish silent cinema at the
University of Copenhagen. Among his publications is an essay on Benjamin Christensen’s
German career.

Michael Wedel is a graduate of the University of Amsterdam currently completing his
Ph.D, entitled ‘The Early Cinema of Max Mack : Narrative, Authorship, lntertextuality.' He
is also one of the main contributors to the Encyclopedia of European Cinema (1995) and
reviews for Medienwissenschaft, Film und Fernsehen and Iris.

Karsten Witte was Professor for Film Studies at the Free University Berlin and the editor
of the writings of Siegfried Kracauer. His books include Theorie des Kinos (editor, 1979),
Der Passagier-Das Passagere: Gedanken iiber F Umar be it (1988) and Lachende Erben, tol-
ler Tag: Filmkomadie im Dritten Reich (1995), Karsten Witte died in 1995.

The Editor

Thomas Elsaesser is Professor at the University of Amsterdam, and Chair of the Depart-
ment of Film and TV Studies. His books as author and editor include New German Cinema:
A History (1989), Early Cinema : Space Frame Narrative (1990), Writing for the Medium :
Television in Transition (1994), Double Trouble (1994), Hoogste Tijd voor een speelfdm
(1995) and Fassbinder’ s Germany (1996).

352 Contributors

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